Kieffi 


D'visioo       3'  / 
ScttioQ 


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3/0 


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A 


g>ij0rt  #t0ri?0  0f  tif^  iia^^^ 


Being  a  Brief  Account  of  the  Circumstances 

IN  WHICH  Some  of  our  Best  Hymns 

AND  Songs  were  Written 


Henrt  Marttn  Kieffer 


\>^ 


'orpfiff^?^^ 


MAY  1  8  1913 


/^.-. 


^GICAL  %^ 


Author  of  "The  Recollections  of  a  Drummer  Boy,"  "College 

Chapel  Sermons,"  "The  First  Settlers    of  the  Forks 

of  the  Delaware,"  "It  is  to  Laugh,"  "The 

Funny  Bone,"  etc. 


StEINMAN  &  FOLTZ 
LANCASTER,  PA. 


Copyright,  1912 
By  Henry  Martyn  Kieflfer 


To  My  Wife 

TO    WHOSE    MOST    EFFICIENT    AND     FAITHFUL    AID    THE 

PREPARATION   OF  THIS   VOLUME   IS   DUE,    IT  13 

MOST  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 


l^xttatt 


PREFACE 


The  purpose  of  this  little  book  is  to 
present  to  its  readers  some  brief  account 
of  the  origin  and  authorship  of  some  of 
our  more  familiar  hymns.  It  is  not  the 
purpose  to  attempt  to  cover  the  whole 
ground  of  Christian  hymnology,  in  its 
simply  historical  aspect,  as  that  would 
demand  the  preparation  of  a  book  of 
very  considerable  dimensions.  It  is  pro- 
posed, simply,  to  select  from  a  very  large 
amount  of  material  which  the  author 
has  for  years  past  been  gathering,  a  few 
of  the  more  striking  and  interesting 
incidents  connected  with  the  composi- 
tion of  some  of  our  best  known  Songs  of 
Zion.  In  doing  this  free  use  will  be  made 
of  such  works  on  the  subject  as  either  a 
private  or  a  public  library  will  afford. 


6  ^rtfntt 

while  some  assistance,  and  that  not  in- 
considerable, will  be  found  in  certain 
carefully  kept  scrap-books  of  apoplectic 
dimension  and  appearance,  the  joint 
product  of  scissors,  paste,  and  patience 
for  many  years  past. 

It  is  quite  possible,  truly,  that  this 
little  book  may  traverse  some  ground 
already  familiar  to  some  of  its  readers, 
but  it  is  believed  that  to  the  great  ma- 
jority of  them  the  story  of  the  hymns  is 
new,  and  will  prove  interesting  and  pro- 
fitable. At  all  events,  it  will  be  an 
advantage  to  all  who  have  not  access 
to  special  works  on  the  subject,  to  have 
in  hand,  gathered  up  in  brief  compass 
and  available  shape,  such  facts  con- 
nected with  the  origin  of  the  hymns,  as 
the  author,  after  some  years  of  patient 
search,  has  found  most  interesting  and 
instructive  to  himself. 

Atlantic  City,  N.  J. 


Bl}axt  Btams  at  ttj?  %mtia 


CHAPTER  I 

Our  Hymns — where  did  they  come 
from?  As  you  take  your  seat  in  your 
pew  on  the  Sunday  morning,  and  open 
your  hymn  book  to  find  the  hj^mn  which 
the  minister  has  just  announced,  does  it 
ever  occur  to  you  to  inquire,  as  you  look 
at  the  hymn,  "Who  wrote  this  hymn? 
Why  ?  And  under  what  circumstances  ? ' ' 
Your  hymn  book  may  perhaps  of  itself 
tell  you  the  name  of  the  author  and  the 
date  of  its  composition — but  that  is 
very  little  information.  Let  us  say, 
for  example,  that  the  hymn  which  the 
minister  has  announced  is, 

"Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds 

Our  hearts  in  Christian  love! 
The  fellowship  of  kindred  minds 
Is  like  to  that  above." 


8        §>l|ort  ^tomfi  of  %  %mnH 

Your  hymn  book  may  indeed  tell  you 
that  this  was  written  by  one  John  Faw- 
cett,  in  the  year  1772.  But  these  bare 
facts  have  very  little  interest  for  you. 
Who  was  John  Fawcett,  and  why,  and 
under  what  circumstances  did  he  write 
this  good  old  hymn?  If  we  could  only 
get  at  that,  perhaps  we  should  find  a  new 
interest  and  see  a  new  meaning  in  this 
grand  old  song  of  Christian  fellowship. 
If  a  person  has  not  yet  started  such  in- 
quiries as  these  in  his  own  mind  in  ref- 
erence to  at  least  some  of  the  hymns  we 
are  accustomed  to  use  in  the  service  of 
the  sanctuary,  he  has  not  a  little  yet 
to  learn  in  connection  with  the  general 
subject  of  singing  in  church.  No  one 
can  understand  a  hymn,  or  at  least  ap- 
preciate it  aright,  or  feel  the  full  power 
of  its  meaning,  unless  he  knows  somewhat 
of  the  spirit  which  actuated  its  com- 
poser and  the  outward  circumstances 
which  called  it  forth. 


Bl^att  ^toriw  of  t\}t  ^^mm        9 

Such  historical  knowledge  of  the  hymns 
adds  a  new  interest  to  them.  It  is  true 
here  as  it  is  true  generally — that  our 
knowledge  of  the  history  of  a  thing  is  the 
measure  of  our  interest  in  it.  Whether 
it  concern  the  earth  which  we  inhabit, 
the  language  we  use,  the  laws  by  which 
we  are  governed,  or  anything  whatso- 
ever with  which  we  have  to  do,  history  is 
in  all  respects  one  of  the  noblest,  most 
refining  and  instructive  branches  of  study. 
And  everything  has  had  a  history.  The 
mountains  which  rise  towering  toward 
the  sky,  and  which  seem  to  have  been 
from  everlasting,  were  not  always  where 
they  are  now.  The  rivers  did  not  al- 
ways flow  in  their  present  channels 
toward  the  sea.  The  continents  were 
at  one  time  at  the  bottom  of  the  ocean. 
Earthquakes,  volcanic  action,  changes 
of  climate,  and  a  thousand  other  in- 
fluences   have   conspired    to    make   the 


earth  what  it  is.  It  has  had  a  history. 
And  it  derives  a  new  interest  for  us  the 
moment  we  begin  to  read  and  study 
and  examine  into  the  manifold  changes 
through  which  it  has  passed.  Indeed, 
anything  develops  a  new  significance 
the  moment  you  learn  something  of  its 
past.  The  piece  of  coal  which  you 
unthinkingly  toss  into  your  stove  be- 
comes a  something  more  when  you 
learn  that  it  is  older  than  the  family  of 
man:  that  it  once  was  a  piece  of  wood 
and  grew  in  a  forest,  the  like  of  which 
is  now  nowhere  to  be  found,  and  of 
which,  if  it  only  had  a  tongue,  it  could 
tell  a  most  wonderful  story.  Now  hold 
it  in  your  hand,  and  turn  it  over,  and 
look  at  it  in  wonder.  So,  too,  the  words 
which  we  daily  use,  have  had,  each  and 
all  of  them,  a  history — often  a  very 
beautiful  and  instructive  history;  and 
when  one  once  begins  to  go  to  his  die- 


^Ifort  ^tortPH  of  tl|0  %mttfi       11 

tionary,  and  studies  the  origin  of  words 
and  the  changes  through  which  they 
have  passed,  language  ceases  to  be  the 
dead  thing  it  formerly  was  esteemed, 
and  becomes  living,  interesting,  instruc- 
tive. 

So  it  is  with  our  hymns.  We  have 
been  using  many  of  them  ever  since  we 
could  sing;  and  we  have  sung  them  not 
knowing  where  they  came  from,  by 
whom  written,  when  or  where  or  why; 
not  knowing  but  they  may  have  been 
dropped  down  from  the  skies;  not  know- 
ing, even  while  we  sang  them,  that  each 
has  had  its  lesson  of  instruction  in  the 
very  circumstances  which  gave  it  birth. 
We  were  like  our  ancestors  of  an  hundred 
years  ago  who  roamed  over  the  hills  of 
central  Pennsylvania  never  suspecting 
the  vast  mineral  treasures  which  had 
been  laid  up  in  store  beneath  their  feet. 

There  are  probably  very  few,  if  any, 


of  our  readers  who  have  not  often  joined 
in  singing, 

"Come,  Thou  Fount  of  every  blessing. 
Tune  my  heart  to  sing  Thy  grace; 
Streams  of  mercy,  never  ceasing, 
Call  for  songs  of  loudest  praise. " 

Yet — who  wrote  it?  It  was  written 
by  a  certain  Robert  Robinson,  of  Cam- 
bridge, England.  He  was  born  in  the 
year  1735,  and  was  converted  under  the 
preaching  of  Whitefield.  He  is  said  to 
have  been  a  man  of  unusual  mental  en- 
dowment, and  shortly  after  his  conver- 
sion he  became  a  preacher.  Unfortun- 
ately, he  was  also  a  man  of  a  restless 
disposition,  unstable  in  his  thinking, 
always  going  from  one  thing  to  another, 
and  eventually  became  an  infidel.  It 
would  seem,  from  a  careful  perusal  of 
this  hymn,  that  when  he  wrote  it  in  the 
first   enthusiasm   of   his   conversion,   he 


^l|ort  ^torteB  of  tlj^  %mtw       13 

was  sensible  of  the  unsettled  character 
of  his  own  mind  and  heart;  for  you  will 
notice  how,  in  the  last  verse,  he  pleads 
piteously  for  the  grace  of  constancy — 

"Oh,  to  grace  how  great  a  debtor 

Daily  I'm  constrained  to  be! 
Let  that  grace  now,  like  a  fetter. 

Bind  my  wand 'ring  heart  to  Thee! 
Prone  to  wander.  Lord,  I  feel  it — 

Prone  to  leave  the  God  I  love — 
Here's  my  heart — Oh  take  and  seal  it. 

Seal  it  from  Thy  courts  above!" 

In  connection  with  the  history  of  this 
hymn,  it  is  related  that  the  author  of  it 
was  one  day  traveling  by  coach  and  had 
for  his  fellow  passenger  a  lady,  an  entire 
stranger  to  him.  She  had  lately  seen 
this  hymn,  and  admired  it  so  much  that 
in  the  course  of  conversation  she  asked 
him  whether  he  had  ever  seen  it,  and 
whether  he  could  tell  her  who  was  the 
author  of  it?     At  first  he  avoided  her 


14       #if0rt  BtttntB  of  tl|r  l^gmuH 

questions,  for  he  was  at  that  very  moment 
an  avowed  infidel.  But  as  she  pressed 
him  for  an  answer  and  began  to  tell  him 
what  a  blessing  and  comfort  that  one 
hymn  had  been  to  her  soul,  he  at  length 
burst  into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears, 
exclaiming,  *' Madam,  I  am  the  poor 
unhappy  man  who  composed  that  hymn 
many  years  ago;  and  I  would  give  a 
thousand  worlds,  if  I  had  them,  to  enjoy 
the  feeling  I  then  had!"  The  poor  man 
died  hopeless.  Alas,  that  one  should 
preach  the  gospel  and  himself  be  a  cast- 
away! 

^  Let  us  take  another  familiar  hymn 
which,  like  the  above,  we  often  sing  at 
the  opening  of  service,  and  which  is 
frequently  used  when  ministers  and  lay- 
men meet  in  Conventions,  Assemblies, 
Conferences  and  Synods — 


^I|nrt  BtarxsB  tit  %  %mttB       15 

"I  love  Thy  kingdom,  Lord, 
The  house  of  Thine  abode; 
The  Church  our  blest  Redeemer  saved 
With  His  own  precious  blood. " 

For  this  most  excellent  hymn  we  are 
indebted  to  Timothy  Dwight,  D.  D., 
one  of  the  many  celebrated  Presidents  of 
Yale  College.  He  was  born  in  Massa- 
chusetts in  1752.  His  father  was  a  mer- 
chant, his  mother  the  third  daughter  of 
Jonathan  Edwards.  He  was  a  bright 
boy,  learned  the  alphabet  at  a  single 
lesson,  could  read  the  Bible  at  the  age  of 
four  years ;  was  ready  for  college  at  eight, 
entered  at  thirteen  and  graduated  at 
seventeen.  He  at  first  devoted  himself 
to  the  study  of  law,  but  found  his  way 
into  the  ministry,  and  was  appointed  a 
Chaplain  in  the  Continental  army  in 
1777.  In  1795  he  was  elected  President 
of  Yale  College.  It  is  said  of  him  that 
he  was  capable  of  doing  an  almost  in- 


16       ^Ifflrt  ^turuB  nf  tJje  %mtta 


credible  amount  of  intellectual  work,  and 
that  after  working  and  studying  all  day 
he  would  sit  up  far  into  the  night  writing 
poetry.  It  was,  no  doubt,  over  the  mid- 
night oil,  after  a  long  day's  work  had 
been  done  for  the  Church  of  Christ,  that 
he  took  his  pen  and  wrote,  as  if  anew 
consecrating  himself  to  the  service  of 
the  Master — 

"I  love  Thy  kingdom,  Lord, 
The  house  of  Thine  abode; 
The  Church  our  blest  Redeemer  saved 
With  His  own  precious  blood. 

I  love  Thy  Church,  Oh  God! 

Her  walls  before  Thee  stand 
Dear  as  the  apple  of  Thine  eye. 

And  graven  on  Thy  hand. 

For  her  my  tears  shall  fall, 

For  her  my  prayers  ascend, 
To  her  my  cares  and  toils  be  given. 

Till  toils  and  cares  shall  end." 


#I|0rt  ^tori^H  of  %  IfgmttH       17 

As  we  read  these  burning  words  of  self- 
consecration  to  the  Redeemer's  Church 
and  Kingdom,  one  can  imagine  and  al- 
most in  fancy  see  the  weary  Yale  College 
President  at  the  midnight  hour,  perhaps, 
when  the  day's  work  was  done  and  all 
the  house  was  still,  bending  over  his 
study  table  which  with  him,  as  with 
many  another  minister  of  Christ,  had 
become  a  veritable  altar  of  the  Lord, 
with  an  aching  head  and  a  tired  hand 
writing  these  words  so  familiar  to  us  all. 
This  hymn,  which  breathes  a  spirit  of 
such  consecration  to  the  Church  of 
Christ,  could  have  been  written  only  by 
one  who  had  first  of  all  really  consecrated 
himself  to  God's  service  and  praise,  and 
it  never  can  have  its  full  power  save  only 
w^ith  those  who,  like  the  author  of  it, 
have  indeed  laid  themselves  on  the  altar 
of  the  Gospel. 

It  is  worthy  of  observation  that  many 


18       #l|art  Btavxts  of  t\^t  %m«a 


of  our  most  celebrated  hymns  were  com- 
posed by  ministers  of  the  Gospel.  And 
it  is  also  worthy  of  remark  how  even  they 
do  not  seem  at  all  times  to  have  been 
equally  prepared  for  so  difficult  a  work  as 
hymn-writing,  but  appear  to  have  been 
moved  by  the  good  spirit  of  God  to  an 
almost  irresistible  impulse  on  certain  oc- 
casions of  rare  inspiration,  when  their 
hearts  were  aflame  and  their  lips  aglow 
with  a  fire  kindled  by  a  live  coal  from 
the  altar.  It  has  largely  been  in  con- 
nection with  pastoral  care  or  pulpit 
labor  that  our  noblest  songs  of  Zion  first 
saw  the  light  of  day.  Hymns,  that  is  to 
say  good  hymns,  were  never,  or  at  least 
very  seldom,  written  with  much  fore- 
thought or  conscious  premeditation. 
They  were  born,  rather,  out  of  a  full 
heart  and  an  overmastering  inspiration, 
when  the  heart  was  all  aglow  with  heav- 
enly light  and   warmth,   and   when  the 


g'liort  ^toma  of  t\^t  %mttB       19 

intellect  and  the  imagination  were  raised 
up,  for  the  time  being,  to  a  higher  plane 
than  usual.  Like  the  holy  men  of  old, 
our  hymn-writers  "Spake  as  they  were 
moved  by  the  Holy  Ghost." 

Here  is  another  hymn  which  we  often 
sing.  It  was  composed  by  a  minister 
and  was  drawn  from  or  was  suggested 
by  ministerial  experiences — 

"Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds 
Our  hearts  in  Christian  love; 
The  fellowship  of  kindred  minds 
Is  like  to  that  above. 


When  we  asunder  part 

It  gives  us  inward  pain ; 
But  we  shall  still  be  joined  in  heart, 

And  hope  to  meet  again.  '* 

In  the  course  of  the  narrative  of  the 
circumstances  connected  with  the  writ- 


20       ^Ijort  ^'tnrtJB  of  t\^  %mttH 

ing  of  this  hymn,  it  will  be  observed  how 
pastor  and  people  are  far  more  attached 
to  one  another  than  either  is  aware  of, 
till  they  come  to  part.  The  relation 
between  pastor  and  people  seems  to  be 
so  sacredly  close  and  so  tenderly  affec- 
tionate, that  it  cannot  be  broken  with- 
out great  pain.  So  it  was,  at  least  with 
John  Fawcett,  the  author  of  the  above 
hymn.  It  is  related  that  after  he  had 
been  a  few  years  in  the  ministry,  his 
family  (as  is  often  the  case),  "increasing 
far  more  rapidly  than  his  income,"  he 
determined  to  make  a  change  in  his 
pastoral  relations  by  leaving  the  con- 
gregation he  had  been  serving,  and 
settling  in  a  Baptist  church  in  London. 
Accordingly,  much  to  the  regret  of  his 
people,  he  delivered  his  farewell  sermon 
to  them,  and  shortly  thereafter  made 
final  preparations  for  the  removal  of  his 
family   and   household   goods.     On   the 


01|0rt  ^torwH  of  il)t  IJymttB       21 

day  appointed  for  the  moving,  surround- 
ed by  his  weeping  parishioners,  he  was 
busily  engaged  in  loading  furniture, 
boxes  and  bundles,  on  six  or  seven 
wagons  which  were  to  carry  him  and  his 
to  his  new  field  of  labor.  All  the  while 
this  was  going  on  his  poor  people  stood 
around  him  weeping,  and  praying  him 
that  he  would  even  yet  change  his  mind, 
clinging  to  him  and  begging  him  to 
remain  with  them.  The  last  wagon  was 
finally  loaded,  and  the  pastor  and  his 
wife  sat  down  on  an  empty  box,  to  weep 
with  the  people  before  saying  a  last 
good-bye  to  them.  *'0h,  John,"  said 
the  good  wife,  "I  cannot  bear  this.  I 
know  not  how  to  go."  "No,"  said  he, 
**  nor  I  either.  And — well — and  we  won't 
go,  either!  Unload  the  wagons  and  put 
everything  in  the  place  where  it  was  be- 
fore!" The  London  church  was  at  once 
informed   by  letter  that  the   Rev.  John 


^Itort  Btaviesi  of  tl^e  %mn0       23 


CHAPTER  II 

The  story  of  the  very  favorite  and 
beautiful  hymn,  "Jesus,  lover  of  my 
soul,"  has  often  been  told,  but  as  it  will 
bear  frequent  repetition,  we  venture  to 
tell  it  once  again.  Your  hymn  book  will 
probably  tell  you  that  it  was  written  by 
Charles  Wesley  in  the  year  1740,  but  it 
will  not  tell  you  the  circumstances  of 
trouble  and  danger  by  which  it  was 
wrung  out  of  his  heart,  a  knowledge  of 
which  alone  will  enable  one  to  grasp  the 
full  meaning  and  power  of  this  deathless 
hymn. 

The  story  runs  that  Charles  Wesley 
and  his  brother  John  were  one  evening 
holding  an  open  air  meeting  on  the  com- 
mon. It  was  during  the  rise  of  Method- 
ism in  England,  and  the  preachers  of  the 


new  denomination  were  frequently  as- 
sailed by  the  mob  and  pelted  with  stones. 
In  the  midst  of  the  services  the  mob 
came  down  on  the  preachers  and  dis- 
persed the  meeting,  compelling  the  Wes- 
ley brothers  to  flee  for  their  lives.  They 
at  first  took  refuge  behind  a  hedge  where 
they  protected  themselves  as  well  as 
they  could  against  the  shower  of  stones 
rattling  around  them,  and  shortly  after, 
in  the  gathering  darkness,  found  a  safe 
retreat  in  a  certain  spring-house.  Here 
they  struck  a  light  with  flint  and  tinder, 
dusted  their  clothes  and  bathed  their 
bruises  in  the  water  of  a  spring  which 
there  bubbled  forth  in  a  refreshing  stream. 
This  done,  they  sat  there  listening  and 
waiting  for  a  safe  time  to  go  to  their 
homes;  and  while  thus  at  leisure,  Charles 
Wesley  pounded  a  piece  of  lead  into  a 
rude  pencil  and  wrote  on  a  scrap  of 
paper  his  immortal  hymn. 


"Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly. " 

If  the  hymn  be  read  carefully,  it  will  be 
observed  how  the  circumstances  of  dan- 
ger and  trial  under  which  it  was  composed 
have  been,  as  by  a  masterly  inspiration, 
woven  into  its  very  warp  and  woof. 
The  angry  mob  furnished  the  conception 
of  the  "nearer  waters,"  "the  tempest,'* 
and  "the  storm."  With  reference  to 
their  having  sheltered  their  heads  behind 
the  hedge,  he  wrote 

"Cover  my  defenceless  head 
With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing. " 

The  spring-house  and  the  hedge  sug- 
gested the  line,  "Safe  into  the  haven 
guide,"  and  the  cool  waters  of  the  spring 
became  a  type  of  Him  who  is  the  "Foun- 
tain opened  in  Israel  for  sin  and  unclean- 
ness,"  of  whose  waters  if  a  man  drink 


26       Biftirt  BtamB  of  tlfi  ^^mx^B 

he  shall  never  thirst  again,  and  of  whom 
the  poet  wrote  those  words  which  will 
never  cease  to  be  sung  until  we  all  drink 
of  the  waters  of  the  "River  of  Life"  in 
Heaven — 

"Plenteous  grace  with  Thee  is  found, 
Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin; 
Let  the  healing  streams  abound, 
Make  and  keep  me  pure  within. 

Thou  of  life  the  fountain  art, 

Freely  let  me  take  of  Thee, 
Spring  Thou  up  within  my  heart. 

Rise  to  all  eternity." 

This  hymn,  especially  when  sung  with 
some  knowledge  of  its  historical  origin, 
is  the  prayer  of  the  persecuted  believer 
fleeing  to  Christ  for  protection  and  help. 
To  the  true  believer  the  world  often 
appears  not  only  a  desert,  but  a  desert 
swept  by  a  continual  storm.  It  is  only 
in  Christ  that  we  find  refreshment  and 


safety.  "In  the  world  ye  shall  have 
tribulation;  but  be  of  good  cheer,  I  have 
overcome  the  world." 

A  War  Incident 

A  party  of  Northern  tourists  formed 
part  of  a  large  company  gathered  on  the 
deck  of  an  excursion  steamer  that  was 
moving  slowly  down  the  historic  Potomac 
one  beautiful  evening  in  the  summer  of 
1881 .  A  gentleman,  who  has  since  gained 
a  national  reputation  as  an  evangelist 
of  song,  had  been  delighting  the  party 
with  his  happy  rendering  of  many  fami- 
liar hymns,  the  last  being  the  sweet 
petition  so  dear  to  every  Christian  heart, 
** Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul." 

The  singer  gave  the  first  two  verses 
with  much  feehng,  and  a  peculiar  em- 
phasis upon  the  concluding  lines  that 
thrilled  every  heart.  A  hush  had  fallen 
upon  the  listeners  that  was  not  broken 


28      Bluott  01artefi  af  tin*  ligmtw 

for  some  seconds  after  the  musical  notes 
had  died  away.  Then  a  gentleman  made 
his  way  from  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd 
to  the  side  of  the  singer,  and  accosted 
him  with,  "Beg  pardon,  stranger,  but 
were  you  actively  engaged  in  the  late 
war?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  man  of  song  answered, 
courteously;  "I  fought  under  General 
Grant." 

"Well,"  the  first  speaker  continued 
with  something  like  a  sigh,  "I  did  my 
fighting  on  the  other  side,  and  think,  in- 
deed am  quite  sure,  I  was  very  near  you 
one  bright  night  eighteen  years  ago  this 
very  month.  It  was  very  much  such  a 
night  as  this.  If  I  am  not  mistaken, 
you  were  on  guard  duty.  We  of  the 
South  had  sharp  business  on  hand,  and 
you  were  one  of  the  enemy.  I  crept 
near  your  post  of  duty,  my  murderous 
weapon  in  hand.     The  shadows  hid  me. 


Your  beat  led  you  into  the  clear  light. 
As  you  paced  back  and  forth  you  were 
humming  the  tune  you  have  just  sung. 
I  raised  my  gun  and  aimed  at  your  heart, 
and  I  had  been  selected  by  our  com- 
mander for  the  work  because  I  was  a 
sure  shot.  Then,  out  upon  the  night 
rang  the  words — 

'Cover  my  defenceless  head 
With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing.  * 

Your  prayer  was  answered.  I  couldn't 
fire  after  that.  And  there  was  no  attack 
made  on  your  camp  that  night.  I  felt 
sure,  when  I  heard  you  sing  this  evening, 
that  you  were  the  man  whose  life  I  was 
spared  from  taking." 

The  singer  grasped  the  hand  of  the 
Southerner,  and  said,  with  much  emo- 
tion: "I  remember  the  night  very  well, 
and  distinctly  the  feeling  of  depression 
and  loneliness  with  which  I  went  forth 


30       ^l|0rt  ^tortfa  of  t^i  IfgmttH 

to  my  duty.  I  knew  my  post  was  one 
of  great  danger,  and  I  was  more  dejected 
than  I  remember  to  have  been  at  any 
time  during  the  service.  I  paced  my 
lonely  beat,  thinking  of  home  and  friends 
and  all  that  life  holds  dear.  Then  the 
thought  of  God's  care  for  all  that  He  has 
created  came  to  me  with  peculiar  force. 
If  He  so  cares  for  the  sparrow,  how  much 
more  for  man  created  in  His  own  image? 
And  I  sang  the  prayer  of  my  heart,  and 
ceased  to  feel  alone.  How  the  prayer 
was  answered  I  never  knew  until  this 
evening.  My  heavenly  Father  thought 
best  to  keep  the  knowledge  from  me  for 
eighteen  years.  How  much  of  His  good- 
ness to  us  we  shall  be  ignorant  of  until 
it  is  revealed  by  the  light  of  eternity! 
'Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul,'  has  been  a 
favorite  hymn  to  me;  now  it  will  be  in- 
expressibly  dear. " 


^tyurt  ^tnmB  nf  %  iJ^gmtta       31 

The  incident  given  in  the  above  sketch 
is  a  true  one,  and  was  related  by  a  lady 
who  was  one  of  the  party  on  the  steamer. 


32      ^I|ort  ^tama  of  ttj^  %m«a 


CHAPTER  III 

Trial,  trouble,  affliction,  sorrow — out 
of  these  have  come  our  sweetest  songs  of 
Zion.  Who  is  there  but  knows  that  the 
most  beautiful  and  touching  of  the 
Psalms  were  written  at  times  when  their 
authors  were  in  the  depths  of  distress 
and  anguish?  So  true  is  the  general 
principle  that  Sorrow  and  Song  go  hand 
in  hand,  like  twin  sisters,  that  a  careful 
analysis  of  our  hymnbooks  will  show 
that  those  hymns  which  are  most  en- 
deared to  us  all  were  composed  at  times 
when  their  authors  were  in  the  greatest 
possible  trouble  of  mind  and  heart.  At 
this  we  need  not  be  at  all  surprised  as 
though  it  were  something  strange  or 
unusual;  for  it  seems  to  be  a  general  law, 
prevaihng  in  the  world  of  nature,  even, 


Bl}att  BtumB  at  tl|f  l|ym«B       33 

and  much  more  in  the  world  of  mind, 
that  low  things  are  the  necessary  ante- 
cedents of  high  things.  In  God's  crea- 
tion chaos  goes  before  cosmos,  always, 
and  the  night  before  the  morning.  As 
the  lark  that  soars  the  highest  builds  her 
nest  the  lowest;  as  the  nightingale  that 
sings  so  sweetly,  sings,  not  under  the 
noonday  sun,  but  in  the  shade  where  all 
things  rest — and  sings  best,  too,  when  a 
needle  is  thrust  through  her  eye;  as  the 
branches  that  are  most  laden  with  ripe 
fruit  bend  the  lowest;  as  the  lowly 
valleys  are  fruitful  while  the  lofty  moun- 
tains are  barren,  and  the  most  fragrant 
spices  will  not  yield  their  most  precious 
perfumes  until  they  are  crushed  and 
bruised — even  so  it  seems  with  the  human 
soul.  This,  too,  like  the  olive,  must  be 
crushed  ere  it  yield  its  fruit,  and,  like 
the  nightingale  sings  its  sweetest  songs 
only  when  suffering  the  keenest  anguish. 


34       #l|flrt  BtnvXtB  0f  t\}t  %mn2 

The  lives  of  the  song-writers  of  Zion 
show,  as  few  other  hves  show,  that 
"through  much  tribulation  must  we 
enter  into  the  kingdom  of  God."  For, 
the  Latin  word,  ''tribulum/'  (from  which 
the  English  word  "tribulation"  has  evi- 
dently been  derived,)  was  the  name  for 
a  flail.  And  so,  what  are  "tribulations" 
but  the  blows  of  the  heavenly  husband- 
man's flail,  threshings,  as  it  were,  of  our 
inner  spiritual  man,  whereby  whatever 
is  light,  trivial,  and  poor  in  us  is  separ- 
ated from  what  is  solid  and  true,  the 
chaff  from  the  wheat  .^^  As  a  quaint  old 
poem  saith — 

"Till  from  the  straw  the  flail  the  corn  doth  beat. 
Until  the  chaff  be  purged  from  the  wheat, 
Yea,  till  the  mill  the  grains  in  pieces  tear. 
The  richness  of  the  flour  will  scarce  appear. 
So,  till  men's  persons  great  afflictions  touch, 
If  worth  be  formed,  their  worth  is  not  so  much; 
Because,  like  wheat  in  straw,  they  have  not  yet 
That  value  which  in  threshing  they  may  get. 


Bl^an  BtovuB  of  tlj^  ^}$mm       35 

For,  till  the  bruising  flails  of  God's  corrections 
Have  threshed  out  of  us  our  vain  affections; 
Till  those  corruptions  which  do  misbecome  us 
Are,  by  the  Sacred  Spirit,  winnowed  from  us; 
Until  from  us  the  straw  of  worldly  treasures, 
Till  all  the  dusty  chaff  of  empty  pleasures. 
Yea,  till  His  flail  upon  us  He  doth  lay, 
To  thresh  the  husk  of  this  our  flesh  away, 
And  leave  the  soul  uncovered:   nay,  yet  more — 
Till  God  shall  make  our  very  spirit  poor. 
We  shall  not  up  to  highest  wealth  aspire: 
But  then  we  shall — and  that  is  my  desire!" 

Through  such  threshings  of  God's  hand, 
through  such  uncovering  of  the  soul 
and  making  poor  of  the  very  spirit  of 
man,  our  sweetest  song-writers  evidently 
passed  at  the  time  when  they  composed 
these  immortal  hymns,  which  will  never 
cease  to  be  sung  until  God's  children 
sing  the  new  song  in  heaven. 

One  remarkable  illustration  of  this  we 
have  already  noticed  in  connection  with 
the  distressing  circumstances  in  which 


36       ^Ifurt  ^tnrt^fi  of  tiff  ^gmtta 

Charles  Wesley  wrote  the  hymn,  "Jesus, 
lover  of  my  soul."  Closely  allied  to 
this,  both  in  its  substance  and  in  the 
nature  of  the  circumstances  in  which  it 
originated,  is  that  other  beautiful  hymn 
so  dear  to  every  believer's  heart,  "Nearer, 
my  God,  to  Thee."  This  was  com- 
posed in  the  sick  room.  The  author 
of  it  was  Mrs.  Sarah  Flower  Adams,  who 
for  many  weary  months  watched  and 
waited  by  the  bedside  of  a  sister  dying 
with  consumption,  until  she  was  so  en- 
feebled by  a  disease  which  she  thus  con- 
tracted, that  she  herself,  shortly  after  the 
death  of  her  sister,  died,  and  so  passed 
into  that  nearer  relation  to  God  for 
which  she  in  her  beautiful  song  so 
ardently  longed.  As  one  reads  over  the 
touching  words  of  this  undying  song  of 
the  dying,  as  it  may  well  be  called,  the 
image  of  the  patient  watcher,  pale  and 
haggard,  rises  to  the  view.     Perhaps  it 


Bl^att  BtatxtB  of  tly?  l^gmnfi       37 

was  in  some  lone  night  watch,  when 
weary  and  faint,  while  all  the  house  was 
hushed  and  all  the  world  was  still,  she 
sat  and  wept,  that  that  sweet  song  burst 
forth  from  her  overburdened  soul — 

"Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee. 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me. 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee! 

Though  like  a  wanderer. 

The  sun  gone  down, 
Darkness  be  over  me, 

My  rest  a  stone — 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee!" 

The  writer  once  heard  this  hymn, 
"Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,"  sung  under 
very  remarkable  circumstances.     It  was 


38       01jflrt  BtamB  of  tl|p  %muH 

during  the  Civil  War.  On  June  18th, 
1864,  in  one  of  our  terrible  battles  in 
front  of  Petersburg,  Va.,  one  of  my 
company  fell.  A  ball  had  shattered  his 
leg.  Two  of  us  picked  him  up  and  carried 
him  on  a  stretcher  to  the  Field  Hospital 
in  the  rear.  There  were  many  wounded 
men  there,  all  waiting  their  turn  at  the 
amputating  table,  and  the  surgeons  were 
busy.  When  his  turn  came,  we  lifted 
him  up  on  the  table,  and  the  surgeon 
said,  "Sorry,  my  boy,  but  your  leg  must 
come  off,  for  the  bone  is  all  shattered 
by  the  ball."  "All  right,"  said  the 
comrade.  The  chloroform  was  about 
to  be  administered  when  the  boy  said, 
"Wait  a  moment.  Doctor,  I  want  to 
pray."  "Yes,"  was  the  answer,  "but 
be  quick  about  it,  for  others  are  waiting. " 
The  boy  covered  his  face  with  his  two 
hands  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said, 
"Now,  I'm  ready.     Go  ahead." 


Bipvt  ^toms  nf  tl|j  Ifymttfi       39 

Quickly  sinking  into  merciful  uncon- 
sciousness he  lay  under  the  knife,  and 
with  the  first  thrust  of  the  long  knife 
through  his  leg  the  patient  broke  into 
singing  "Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee.*' 
He  sang  with  a  clear  voice  and  an  ap- 
parently unerring  memory,  missing  none 
of  the  stanzas  and  singing  the  hymn 
through  to  the  end.  The  surgeon  worked 
swiftly  and  surely,  and  with  the  skill  of 
a  hand  long  used  to  the  terrible  work, 
pausing  only  twice  during  the  operation 
to  wipe  the  gathering  mist  from  his 
eyes,  for  while  he  worked  the  boy  sang 
on.  When  the  operation  was  concluded, 
tears  were  on  many  a  cheek  weather- 
beaten  and  bronzed  in  long  and  hard 
service,  and  the  surgeon  said,  "I  ven- 
ture to  say  that  that  boy  comes  from  a 
Christian  home  somewhere  away  up 
North — and  may  God  bless  him." 

Akin  to  the  general  tenor  of  the  hymn 


mentioned  above,  is  that  ever  beautiful 
even-song  which  is  almost  without  a 
rival  amongst  our  sacred  melodies — 

"Abide  with  me;  fast  falls  the  eventide; 
The  darkness  deepens:  Lord,  with  me  abide!" 

For  this  truly  splendid  and  classical 
composition  the  Christian  world  is  under 
lasting  obligations  to  the  Rev.  Henry 
Francis  Lyte,  who  was  born  at  Kelso, 
Scotland,  June  1,  1793,  and  died  at 
Nice,  1847.  Liberally  educated  at  Trin- 
ity College,  Dublin,  he  entered  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Master  as  a  curate  in  the 
Church  of  England.  In  the  earlier  part 
of  his  ministry  he  settled  in  a  dreary 
Irish  parish,  where  he  had  many  strug- 
gles with  poverty.  He  seems,  at  this 
time,  to  have  had  but  little  hearty  inter- 
est in  his  labors,  and  acknowledged 
afterward  that  he  went  through  with 
the  functions  of  his  sacred  office  in  a 


^^att  BtamB  of  tl\t  %mtta       41 

merely  mechanical  and  lifeless  way. 
But  God  took  good  care  to  arouse  Henry 
Francis  Lyte  to  a  warmer  zeal,  for  He 
had  a  grand  work  for  him  to  do  for  the 
Church.  For,  about  this  time,  that  is 
while  he  was  yet  a  curate  in  an  obscure 
parish  in  Ireland,  being  called  one  day 
to  the  bedside  of  a  neighboring  clergy- 
man who  was  dying,  and  had  sent  for 
Lyte  in  great  agony,  "because  he  was 
unpardoned  and  unprepared  to  die," 
this  sad  scene  left  so  deep  an  impression 
on  Lyte's  mind  that  he  says  "I  was 
deeply  affected  and  brought  to  look  at 
life  and  its  issues  with  a  different  eye 
than  before;  and  I  began  to  study  my 
Bible,  and  to  preach  in  another  manner 
than  I  had  formerly  done."  It  was  to 
this  revival  in  the  heart  and  mind  of 
this  gifted  man  that  we  are  indebted  for 
the  well  known  hymn — 


"Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken, 
All  to  leave  and  follow  Thee; 
Destitute,  despised,  forsaken — 
Thou  from  hence  my  all  shalt  be. " 

Compelled  at  length  by  ill  health  to  re- 
sign his  charge,  he  settled  at  Brixham, 
a  seaport  town  in  the  county  of  Devon, 
having  probably  chosen  this  location 
for  the  advantage  which  the  sea  air,  as  it 
was  hoped,  would  afford  him.  The 
population  was  largely  composed  of 
rough,  but  warm-hearted  fishermen, 
amongst  whom  he  spent  the  remainder 
of  his  days,  in  many  and  sore  struggles 
with  poverty.  Here  he  "made  hymns 
for  his  little  ones,  hymns  for  his  hardy 
fishermen,  and  hymns  for  sufferers  like 
himself."  It  was  here  too,  that  he 
wrote  "Abide  with  me,"  which  was  the 
last,  as  it  was  also  the  finest  hymn  which 
he  ever  composed. 

The  story  of  the  composition  of  it  is 


#Ijnrt  ^tuma  of  tii^  ^mtta       43 

truly  touching,  and  sheds  great  Hght 
upon  its  meaning.  He  had  been  in  ill 
health  a  long  time — scarcely  able  any 
more  to  preach  to  his  dear  people.  But 
though,  as  he  says,  "I  was  scarcely  able 
to  crawl,  I  made  one  more  effort  to 
preach  and  administer  the  Holy  Com- 
munion."  As  his  people  surrounded 
the  table  of  the  Lord,  they  were  all  made 
to  feel,  both  by  the  deep  solemnity  of 
his  manner  and  by  the  earnest  words 
with  which  he  addressed  them,  that  their 
pastor  was  amongst  them  for  the  last 
time.  Many  tearful  eyes  witnessed  the 
distribution  of  the  sacred  elements  as 
given  out  by  one  who  already  stood  on 
the  borders  of  the  blessed  land  beyond. 
Having  with  his  dying  breath  given  a 
last  adieu  to  his  sorrowing  flock,  he  re- 
tired to  his  chamber  fully  aware  of  the 
near  approach  of  the  end;  and  shortly 
afterward,  as  his  sun  was  drawing  near 


44       ^l|0rt  ^tort^H  of  tlj0  %mita 

to  his  setting,  he  handed  to  a  friend  this 
immortal  hymn,  which,  accompanied  by 
music  which  his  own  hand  had  prepared, 
is  indeed  like  the  song  of  the  swan,  his 
sweetest  as  it  was  also  his  last — 

** Abide  with  me;  fast  falls  the  eventide; 
The  darkness  deepens;  Lord!  with  me  abide; 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee. 
Help  of  the  helpless!     Oh,  abide  with  me! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  Hfe's  httle  day. 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim,  its  glories  pass  away; 
Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see; 
Oh  Thou  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me! 


Hold  Thou  Thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes; 
Shine  through  the  gloom  and  point  me  to  the  skies ; 
Heaven's    morning    breaks    and     Earth's    vain 

shadows  flee; 
In  life,  in  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me!  ' ' 

To  the  end  of  all  time,  or  certainly 
until  the  English  language  shall  cease  to 


be  spoken,  this  unparalleled  version  of 
Christ's  twilight  walk  with  the  two  dis- 
ciples to  Emmaus  will  be  sung.  It  will 
be  the  favorite  even-song  of  worshiping 
congregations,  and  will  never  cease  to 
cheer  the  souls  of  believers  as  they  come, 
at  last,  to  walk  through  the  dark  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  death. 

We  turn  attention  to  one  more  master- 
piece of  sacred  song,  which,  like  the  one 
above,  was  inspired  by  sickness,  suffer- 
ing and  unutterable  weariness  of  soul. 
This  is — 

"Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom. 
Lead  Thou  me  on." 

To  one  who  has  watched  the  setting 
sun,  as  it  goes  down  amid  a  flood  of 
crimson  and  gold,  bathing  the  clouds 
in  splendor,  and  opening  up  vistas  of 
beauty  unsuspected  in  the  garish  light  of 
noon-day,  there  is  something  in  this 
grand  close  of  the  day  infinitely  sugges- 


tive  of  the  glories  of  heaven.  It  may 
be  but  a  few  moments  ere  this  swiftly 
vanishing  vision  of  heaven's  pearly  gates 
and  jasper  walls  and  golden  streets  will 
pass  away,  but  evanescent  though  it  be, 
it  is,  to  every  pious  and  thoughtful  soul, 
a  standing  and  oft  repeated  promise  of 
the  glories  which  await  the  faithful  in 
the  better  land  beyond. 

It  was  the  sight  of  the  setting  sun 
that  suggested  the  hymn  we  are  pre- 
sently considering.  It  was  written  by 
John  Henry  Newman.  In  1833,  while 
recovering  from  a  severe  illness,  he  was 
upon  the  Mediterranean  for  his  health. 
One  evening  when  the  warmth  had  died 
out  of  the  air,  he  sat  upon  the  deck  of 
the  vessel  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  weak  and 
homesick,  watching  the  sun  descend 
through  the  Italian  sky,  and  sink  into  the 
sea.  As  the  last  traces  of  light  faded 
away  in  the  west,  the  memory  of  home 


^Ijnrt  Btatxts  of  tl?p  %mttfl       47 


and  of  the  past  came  strongly  upon  him. 
Retiring  to  his  cabin,  he  at  once  com- 
posed the  splendid  hymn — 

"Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on; 
The  night  is  dark  and  I  am  far  from  home. 

Lead  Thou  me  on. 
Keep  Thou  my  feet;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene:   one  step  enough  for  me." 

How  much  the  Church  of  all  ages  has 
been,  and  ever  to  the  end  will  be,  depen- 
dent on  the  sufferings  of  her  people  for 
her  purest  and  sweetest  songs  of  praise, 
no  one  can  tell.  We  only  know  that 
such  is  the  case.  It  is  in  accordance  with 
God's  law  everywhere  manifest,  that 
the  sorrow  must  go  before  the  song,  as 
the  darkness  goes  before  the  day,  and 
the  cross  before  the  crown.  Even  in 
heaven,  when  God's  people  sing  the  new 
song  which  none  save  the  redeemed  of 


all  ages  can  sing,  it  will,  no  doubt,  be 
the  preceding  sorrows  and  sufferings 
endured  on  earth  which  alone  will  pro- 
perly fit  that  mighty  host  to  swell  "the 
song  of  them  that  triumph  and  the 
shout  of  them  that  feast. " 

Here  is  another  hymn,  a  most  touch- 
ing song  of  Christian  resignation,  wrung 
out  of  the  very  heart  of  a  pious  man 
by  affliction  and  suffering — "My  Jesus, 
as  Thou  wilt."  Its  author,  Benjamin 
Schmolke,  was  born  about  1675.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  poor  minister  in  Silesia, 
was  educated  for  the  ministry  by  some 
benevolent  person,  became  his  father's 
assistant  in  1694,  and  was  afterwards 
himself  pastor  at  Schweidnitz.  In  1730, 
he  was  paralysed  and  in  part  lost  his 
sight.  Then  his  home  burned  down, 
and  all  his  little  property  was  destroyed. 
Next  his  wife  died,  and  one  by  one  all 
his    children    passed    away — and    then, 


^Ijnrt  BtavxsB  of  tift  Ifgmtta       49 


homeless  and  friendless,  as  the  nightingale 
sings  most  sweetly  in  her  pain,  and  as 
the  olive  yields  no  oil  till  beaten  and 
bruised,  he  gave  to  the  Church  through- 
out the  world  a  classic  song  of  Christian 
resignation  which  will  be  loved  and  sung 
until  sorrow  shall  be  no  more.  This 
grand  old  German  hymn  has  been  most 
admirably  translated  by  Miss  Wink- 
worth — 

"My  Jesus,  as  Thou  wilt! 

Oh,  may  Thy  will  be  mine! 
Into  Thy  hand  of  love 

I  would  my  all  resign; 
Through  sorrow,  or  through  joy, 

Conduct  me  as  Thine  own, 
And  help  me  still  to  say — 

My  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done! 

My  Jesus,  as  Thou  wilt! 

Though  seen  through  many  a  tear. 
Let  not  my  star  of  hope 

Grow  dim  or  disappear: 


50       ^I|ort  ^0rt$a  of  tl|0  l^gmtta 

Since  Thou  on  earth  hast  wept 

And  sorrowed  oft  alone, 
If  I  must  weep  with  Thee — 

My  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done! 

My  Jesus  as  Thou  wilt! 

All  shall  be  well  for  me; 
Each  changing  future  scene 

I  gladly  trust  with  Thee : 
Straight  to  my  home  above 

I  travel  calmly  on. 
And  sing,  in  life  or  death. 

My  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done!" 

This  hymn,  we  think  and  venture  to 
say,  should  always  be  sung  to  "Jewett" 
— one  of  Carl  Maria  Von  Weber's  ex- 
quisite flights  of  song — for  this  is  like 
no  other  in  its  intimate  interpretation 
of  the  prayerful  words.  The  tune,  ar- 
ranged by  Joseph  Holbrook,  is  from  an 
opera — the  overture  to  Weber's  *'Der 
Freisehiitz. " 


Bl^att  ^t0n^s  0f  tl|0  Ifgmtta       51 


CHAPTER  IV 

Nowhere,  perhaps,  is  the  feehng  of 
fellowship  and  communion  with  all  of 
God's  people  everywhere  so  prominent 
as  in  the  hymns  we  sing.  It  has  often 
been  remarked  that  a  true  hymn  must 
not  express  what  is  peculiar  to  the  in- 
dividual who  composes  it,  nor  even  to  the 
class  or  community  to  which  he  may 
chance  to  belong.  It  must  breathe  a 
broad  and  truly  catholic  spirit.  It  must 
give  expression  to  feelings  or  sentiments 
which  are  common  to  all  Christians.  It 
must  give  voice  to  the  conscious  faith  of 
the  whole  church.  Such  a  hymn  will 
live:  and  if  you  will  look  into  the  matter 
carefully,  you  will  find,  too,  that  only 
such  do  live.  A  distinctively  Methodist 
hymn,  for  example,  is  doomed    to     an 


52       ^l|0rt  ^tnrt^a  of  tljj 


early  death.  A  strongly  Presbyterian 
hymn  will  never  live  to  be  twenty-one 
years  old.  But  a  truly  catholic  hymn, 
that  is,  one  that  breathes  a  broad  and 
liberal  Christian  spirit,  and  expresses 
feelings,  hopes,  fears,  confessions,  such 
as  are  common  to  all  Christian  people, 
will  live  forever.  Charles  Wesley  wrote 
"Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul,"  but  there  is 
nothing  said  in  it  about  the  peculiar  tenets 
of  the  Methodist  denomination.  Sarah 
Flower  Adams  wrote  "Nearer,  my  God, 
to  Thee,"  and  she  was  a  Unitarian,  but 
we  fail  to  find  any  traces  of  Unitarianism 
in  her  beautiful  hymn.  Denomination- 
alism  seems  to  be  very  good  and  proper 
in  the  catechism  or  in  the  confession  of 
faith,  but  it  seems  quite  out  of  place  in 
the  hymn  book.  If  there  is  one  point 
where  people  of  different  church  relations 
do  meet  on  common  ground,  and  hold 
sweet  communion  and  fellowship  with  one 


another,  it  is  in  the  hymn  book.  All 
Christian  people  seem  to  have  vested 
rights  in  the  songs  of  Zion,  for  they  have 
all  contributed  their  portion  to  the  general 
collection.  Here  Luther's  hymn  *'  A 
mighty  fortress  is  our  God, "  stands  side 
by  side  with  the  beautiful  songs  of  the 
middle-age  monks,  as 

"Jesus,  the  very  thought  of  Thee 
With  sweetness  fills  my  breast," 

and 

"Jerusalem,  the  golden, 
With  milk  and  honey  blest." 

Here  the  author  of  "Nearer,  my  God, 
to  Thee"  stands  side  by  side  with 
the  author  of  "I  love  Thy  kingdom, 
Lord."  Here  the  Baptist  sings  "Blest 
be  the  tie  that  binds, "  and  the  Methodist 
"All   hail  the   power   of  Jesus'  name." 


54       ^Ijort  BtamB  nf  t\)t  %mtta 

We  are  difiFerent  in  our  ways  of  worship- 
ing and  in  our  theology,  but  we  hold  to 
the  same  Bible  and  use  essentially  the 
same  hymns  of  praise. 

'A  very  large  proportion  of  our  best 
hymns  we  owe  to  the  remarkable  genius  of 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Isaac  Watts.  He  was  born 
in  England,  1674,  and  was  a  minister  of  the 
Gospel  in  what  was  known  in  those  days 
as  the  "Independent  Church" — a  body 
of  believers  which  arose  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  and  which  was  dis- 
tinguished from  Episcopacy  on  the  one 
hand  and  Presbytery  on  the  other.  From 
his  earliest  years  he  was  noted  for  his 
piety  as  well  as  the  remarkable  brilliancy 
of  his  mind.  Like  Zaccheus  of  old,  he  was 
a  very  small  man  physically,  being  both 
short  of  stature  and  slender  in  form.  It 
is  related  that  on  one  occasion,  when  he 
was  stopping  over  night  at  a  hotel,  some 
curious  stranger,  on  ascertaining  who  the 


ISAAC  WATTS. 


^lynrt  BtantB  nf  tljF  %mtta       55 

little  man  was,  exclamed,  in  a  somewhat 
louder  tone  than  he  had  intended,"  What! 
is  that  great  Dr.  Watts!"  It  was  not 
designed  that  this  should  be  overheard; 
but  the  little  man  had  very  sharp  ears, 
and  at  once  turned  toward  his  critic  and 
replied : 

"Were  I  so  tall  to  reach  the  pole. 
Or  grasp  the  ocean  in  my  span, 
I  must  be  measured  by  my  soul — 
The  mind's  the  measure  of  the  man. " 

Watts  is  only  one  example  out  of  many 
of  the  general  truth  that  it  hath  pleased 
the  good  Lord  to  make  use  of  the  weak 
things  of  this  world  to  accomplish  His 
wonderful  purposes.  Like  many  other 
great  and  useful  preachers,  Watts  was 
very  weak  physically,  being  in  fact  an 
invalid;  and  yet  he  served  his  church 
faithfully  for  a  period  of  fifty  years. 
After  preaching  he   was    frequently    so 


much  exhausted  as  to  be  obliged  to 
go  directly  to  his  house  and  retire  at 
once  to  bed,  having  his  room  closed 
in  darkness  and  silence.  Yet,  though 
physically  small  to  insignificance,  and 
often  sick  and  weak  to  utter  prostration, 
he  placed  the  Church  of  Christ,  in  all 
lands  and  in  every  age,  under  lasting 
obligations  for  the  most  excellent  hymns 
which  came  from  his  pen.  He  wrote  a 
great  many  hymns,  of  which  some,  of 
course,  are  of  inferior  merit;  but  at  the 
same  time  it  is  calculated  that  "more 
hymns  which  approach  to  a  very  high 
standard  of  excellence  may  be  found  in 
his  works  than  in  those  of  any  other 
Enghsh  writer."  Among  these  may  be 
mentioned, 

"When  I  survey  the  wondrous  cross 
On  which  the  Prince  of  Glory  died, 
My  richest  gain  I  count  but  loss. 

And  pour  contempt  on  all  my  pride. " 


^l|0rt  ^tamsi  txf  tly?  ^^mm       57 


"Jesus  shall  reign  where'er  the  sun 
Does  his  successive  journeys  run: 
His  kingdom  stretch  from  shore  to  shore. 
Till  moons  shall  wax  and  wane  no  more. 


"Joy  to  the  world,  the  Lord  is  come! 
Let  earth  receive  her  king. 
Let  every  heart  prepare  Him  room, 
And  heaven  and  nature  sing." 


"My  soul  repeat  His  praise, 
Whose  mercies  are  so  great: 
Whose  anger  is  so  slow  to  rise, 
So  ready  to  abate." 


"Oh  God,  our  help  in  ages  past. 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come. 
Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast, 
And  our  eternal  home. " 


58       Bl^BXt  BtaxuB  at  %  %m«a 


"Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne, 
Ye  nations  bow  with  sacred  joy; 
Know  that  the  Lord  is  God  alone, 
He  can  create  and  He  destroy. " 

Concerning  the  last  example  here  given, 
which  the  reader  will  recognize  as  Watts' 
version  of  the  One  Hundredth  Psalm, 
it  may  be  well  to  remark  that  the  first 
stanza  is  Wesley's,  not  Watts'.  As  origi- 
nally written  by  Watts,  the  Psalm  read, 

"Sing  to  the  Lord  with  joyful  voice; 
Let  every  land  His  name  adore: 
The  British  Isles  shall  send  the  noise 
Across  the  ocean  to  the  shore." 

The  second  stanza  ran — 

"Nations  attend  before  His  throne 
With  solemn  fear,  with  sacred  joy. " 

The  Church  in  all  lands  is  under 
lasting  obligations  to  Wesley  for  having 


^I|0rt  BtBtxtB  of  tl|0  ?l?ymttB       59 

swept  all  this  away,  and  for  substituting 
in  its  stead  that  truly  grand  and  thrill- 
ing first  verse,  "Before  Jehovah's  awful 
throne. " 

The  hymn,  "There  is  a  land  of  pure 
delight,"  also  comes  from  the  pen  of 
Dr.  Watts.  He  was  sitting  one  evening 
looking  out  of  a  window  over  the  river 
Itchen  in  Southampton,  and  in  full  view 
of  the  beautiful  Isle  of  Wight,  when  he 
composed  it.  The  scenery  which  there 
greets  the  eye  of  the  beholder,  it  is  said, 
is  indeed  a  type  of  that  Paradise  of 
which  the  poet  sang.  The  country  be- 
yond the  river  rises  from  the  margin  of 
the  flood,  and  swells  into  a  boundless 
prospect,  all  mantled  in  the  richest 
verdure  of  summer,  checkered  with  for- 
est-growth and  fruitful  fields  under  the 
highest  cultivation,  and  gardens  and 
villas,  and  every  adornment  which  the 


60      ^l|0rt  0t0neB  of  tl|p  %mtt0 


hand  of  man,  in  a  series  of  ages,  could 
create  on  such  susceptible  ground. 

As  the  poet  looked  upon  the  scenery 
thus  presented  to  view,  he  was  inspired 
to  sing  of  the  fairer  prospect  of  that 
blessed  and  beautiful  Canaan  which  to 
the  eye  of  the  believer,  rises  beyond  the 
swelling  flood  of  the  Jordan  of  Death, 
and  where — 

"Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  dressed  in  living  green; 
So  to  the  Jews,  old  Canaan  stood 
While  Jordan  rolled  between." 


^I|ort  ^orl00  at  tl|p  ^mna       61 


CHAPTER  V 

From  hymns  written  by  a  man  who 
was  feeble  physically  let  us  pass  to  those 
of  a  man  who  was  feeble  mentally.  The 
poet  William  Cowper  was  born  1731. 
He  was  the  son  of  an  English  clergyman. 
From  childhood  he  was  shy,  nervous, 
and  physically  feeble.  At  the  age  of 
eighteen  he  began  the  study  of  law,  but 
did  not  well  succeed.  He  gradually 
became  melancholy,  and  made  several 
attempts  at  suicide.  Twenty  times  he 
put  a  bottle  containing  poison  to  his 
lips,  but  did  not  drink.  Then  he  at- 
tempted to  drown  himself,  and  at  last 
he  tried  hanging  himself  by  a  rope  at 
the  top  of  his  door;  but  the  rope  broke, 
and  other  means  failing  he  was  forced 
to  live  on  in  spite  of  himself,  for  God  had 


work  for  William  Cowper  to  do.  At 
length  his  friends  placed  him  in  an  insane 
asylum,  where  after  a  period  of  two 
years  he  was  restored  mentally,  and  saved 
spiritually.  Before  his  days  ended,  how- 
ever, his  malady  returned,  and  he  died 
insane. 

And  yet,  to  this  poor  mentally  de- 
ranged man  are  we  indebted  for  such 
masterpieces  of  hymnology  as  *'God 
moves  in  a  mysterious  way,"  "There  is 
a  fountain  filled  with  blood,"  and  "Oh, 
for  a  closer  walk  with  God." 

The  first  of  these,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  was  composed  while  the  author 
was  under  a  cloud  of  temporary  insanity. 
It  is  related  that  "when  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  fits  of  mental  derangement 
to  which  he  was  subject,  he  most  un- 
happily but  firmly  believed  that  the 
divine  will  was  that  he  should  drown 
himself  in  a  particular  part  of  the  river 


Ouse,  some  two  or  three  miles  from  his 
residence  at  Olney.  One  evening  he 
called  for  a  post-chaise  from  one  of  the 
hotels  in  the  town,  and  ordered  the  driver 
to  take  him  to  that  spot,  which  he 
readily  undertook  to  do  as  he  well  knew 
the  place.  On  this  occasion,  however, 
several  hours  were  consumed  in  seeking 
it,  and  utterly  in  vain.  The  man  was 
at  length  reluctantly  compelled  to  ac- 
knowledge that  he  had  entirely  lost  the 
way."  Cowper  returned  to  his  house, 
and  was  so  impressed  with  the  strange 
providence  which  had  frustrated  his 
design  and  prevented  his  rash  inten- 
tion, that  he  immediately  sat  down  and 
wrote  the  hymn  so  admirably  descriptive 
of  God's  mysterious  providence.  Con- 
sidered by  itself,  and  quite  indepen- 
dently of  the  circumstances  in  which  it 
was  written,  this  hymn  of  Cowper's 
must  always   rank   among  the  master- 


pieces  of  sacred  poetry.  Grand  in  con- 
ception and  chaste  in  diction,  each 
stanza  presenting  a  new  and  striking 
image,  and  every  hne  forcibly  develop- 
ing the  underlying  thought  of  the  whole 
composition,  it  cannot  fail  to  be  regarded 
as  a  perfect  gem  of  sacred  song.  God's 
planting  His  footsteps  in  the  sea  and 
riding  upon  the  storm — treasuring  up  His 
bright  designs  deep  in  unfathomable 
mines — the  dark  and  dreadful  clouds  of 
affliction  big  with  mercy,  and  ready  to 
break  in  blessing  on  the  heads  of  God's 
people — the  hiding  of  God's  smiling  face 
behind  a  frowning  providence — it  is  not 
often  one  finds  such  exquisitely  expres- 
sive and  brilliant  imagery  as  this  woven 
into  the  warp  and  woof  of  sacred  song, 
and  with  such  consummate  skill 

Besides  this,  Cowper  wrote  a  great 
many  other  hymns,  of  which  we  shall 
mention  only   two.     Cowper  lived  dur- 


ing  the  times  when  Methodism  arose  in 
England,  and  some  of  his  best  compo- 
sitions were  due  to  the  inspiration  of 
this  rehgious  movement.  The  Rev.  John 
Newton,  a  friend  of  his,  held  meet- 
ings of  a  Methodistic  kind  which  Cow- 
per  frequently  attended.  On  one  occa- 
sion Newton  requested  him  to  prepare 
a  hymn  for  his  prayermeeting,  and  shortly 
thereafter  the  Olney  prayermeeting  sang 
for  the  first  time  a  hymn  which  has  long 
since  encircled  the  globe  with  its  hallowed 
influences — 

"There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood, 
Drawn  from  Immanuel's  veins, 
And  sinners  plunged  beneath  that  flood 
Lose  all  their  guilty  stains." 

The  hymn,  '*0,  for  a  closer  walk 
with  God,"  we  also  owe  to  Cowper.  It 
was  probably  written  at  a  time  when  he 
had  relapsed  into  deep  melancholy  and 


was  wandering  on  the  borders  of  in- 
sanity. Sadly  and  sorrowfully  seeking 
again  for  the  blessedness  he  knew  when 
first  he  saw  the  Lord,  and  pitifully  pray- 
ing for  the  return  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  he 
at  last  succumbed  to  his  malady,  but 
died  quietly  and  peacefully.  Entering 
thus  into  rest  at  last,  and  joining  the 
blessed  company  of  the  redeemed  of  all 
ages,  he  no  doubt  realized  as  never  be- 
fore the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  his 
own  words,  first  sung  in  the  humble 
Olney  prayermeeting, 

"Then,  in  a  nobler,  sweeter  song, 
I'll  sing  Thy  power  to  save. 
When  this  poor  lisping,  stamm'ring  tongue 
Lies  silent  in  the  grave. " 

The  truth  that  it  pleases  the  good 
Lord  to  employ  the  meanest  agencies  for 
the  accomplishment  of  His  purposes,  is 
well    illustrated   in   the   history    of   the 


writer  of  the  well-known  hymn,  ''Rock 
of  Ages,  Cleft  for  Me. "  It  was  written 
by  the  Rev.  Augustus  Toplady  (born 
1740),  and  first  appeared,  March,  1776, 
in  "The  Gospel  Magazine,"  which  he 
edited.  But  little  is  known  of  the  im- 
mediate circumstances  connected  with 
the  composition  of  this  widely  known 
hymn;  but  Toplady  himself  acknowl- 
edges that  the  hymn  was,  in  a  large 
measure,  at  least,  indirectly  due  to  the 
agency  of  an  illiterate  man,  who,  al- 
though he  did  not  himself  write  the  hymn, 
yet  was  the  providential  means  of  its 
being  written  by  another.  Toplady  re- 
lates that  when  he  was  a  boy,  only  six- 
teen years  of  age,  while  on  a  visit  to 
Ireland  in  company  with  his  widowed 
mother,  he  one  day  happened  to  stroll 
into  a  barn,  where  an  earnest,  but  un- 
educated layman  was  preaching  from 
the  text:    "Ye  who  sometime  were  afar 


68       B>lj0rt  #tonw  of  tlft  l^yttttta 


off,  are  made  nigh  by  the  blood  of 
Christ."  The  sermon  made  a  deep  and 
lasting  impression  upon  the  lad's  mind; 
it  led  to  his  conversion;  he  became  a 
useful  and  celebrated  preacher;  and, 
although  he  did  much  good  work  be- 
sides, he  will  in  all  probability  be  best 
and  longest  remembered  as  the  author 
of  "Rock  of  Ages."  Strange,  that  the 
influence  of  a  sermon  preached  in  a  barn 
to  a  handful  of  people,  by  a  man  who 
could  hardly  spell  his  own  name,  should 
render  possible,  and  indirectly  produce, 
a  hymn  which  should  be  translated  into 
almost  every  tongue  spoken  by  man, 
and  which  will  continue  to  bring  com- 
fort and  cheer  to  God's  people  in  every 
age  to  the  end  of  time. 

The  life  and  the  work  of  a  minister 
often  seems  discouraging  enough.  Often 
and  often  the  preacher,  seeing  so  little 
immediate  results  of  his  labors,  is  tempted 


^I|0rt  BtaxxtB  of  t\}t  ilJgmtiH       69 

to  sit  down  in  despair.  Yet,  who  knows 
how  great  good  may  be  done  through 
his  humble  instrumentahty  of  which 
he  will  never  hear  in  this  world.  See 
what  was  accomplished  by  one  sermon, 
and  that  by  a  poor,  uneducated  man! 
Perhaps  he  never  heard  of  it.  Perhaps 
he  was  in  his  grave,  this  poor  illiterate 
Irishman,  before  "Rock  of  Ages"  found 
its  way  into  every  home  and  every 
church  in  England,  and  set  out  on  its 
mission  of  comfort  and  cheer  to  the  whole 
world.  Only  let  us  labor  on,  in  season 
and  out,  and  God  will  no  doubt  care  for 
the  results.  *'In  the  morning  sow  thy 
seed,  and  in  the  evening  withhold  not 
thy  hand,  for  thou  knowest  not  whether 
shall  prosper,  this  or  that,  or  whether 
they  shall  be  both  alike  good." 


70       ^Ijnrt  BinmB  of  tl|f  l^gmita 


CHAPTER  VI 

We  have  seen  that  many  of  our  best 
hymns  were  originally  suggested  by  the 
peculiar  circumstances  or  special  ex- 
periences of  the  persons  who  composed 
them.  This  seems  to  have  been  the 
case  with  the  hymn,  "Guide  me,  O  Thou 
great  Jehovah."  It  was  written  by  the 
Rev.  Dr.  William  Williams,  who  was  an 
itinerant  Methodist  minister  in  the  time 
of  Whitefield  during  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. He  was  born  in  the  year  1717  in 
Wales,  was  well  educated,  became  a  poet 
of  no  little  celebrity,  studied  medicine, 
was  converted  during  the  Methodist 
movement  then  prevailing,  and  at  length 
devoted  himself  to  the  work  of  the 
ministry.  He  labored  diligently  for  over 
half  a  century  in  the  service  of  the  Master, 


^I|0rt  ^tarxtB  of  t\]t  %mua       71 

traveling  on  an  average  nearly  twenty- 
five  hundred  miles  a  year  for  more  than 
forty  years.  His  numerous  and  ex- 
tended journeys  were  generally  made 
either  on  foot  or  on  horseback,  for  in 
those  days  there  were  no  railroads,  and 
and  in  the  country  in  which  he  labored 
there  were  few  stagecoaches.  There  can 
be  little  doubt  that  his  long  and  solitary 
journeys  among  the  hills  and  over  the 
moors,  where  he  frequently  lost  his  way 
and  was  forced  to  spend  the  night,  in 
cold  and  hunger,  under  the  open  sky, 
suggested  that  ever  beautiful  song  of 
the  Christian  pilgrim — 

"Guide  me,  O  Thou  great  Jehovah, 
Pilgrim  through  this  barren  land; 
I  am  weak,  but  Thou  art  mighty. 
Hold  me  with  Thy  powerful  hand; 
Bread  of  Heaven! 
Feed  me  now  and  evermore. 


72      ^tfort  Btatxss  of  tljF  %mttB 

Open  now  the  crystal  fountain 

Whence  the  healing  streams  do  flow; 

Let  the  fiery,  cloudy  pillar 

Lead  me  all  my  journey  through; 
Strong  Deliverer! 

Be  Thou  still  my  strength  and  shield. " 

This  may  well  be  called  the  prayer  of 
the  Christian  pilgrim.  God's  children  in 
every  age  are  *' strangers  and  pilgrims." 
They  are  aliens  in  the  world.  They  seek 
a  country  which  lieth  afar,  and  a  '*city 
whose  builder  and  maker  is  God." 
They  often  lose  their  way,  and  fall  into 
many  misfortunes  on  their  journey,  and 
well  may  they  daily  pray  and  sing, 
"Guide  me,  O  Thou  great  Jehovah!" 

It  may  be  here  well  worthy  of  remark 
that  this  hymn  is  usually  sung  to  the 
good  old  tune  of  "Autumn,"  and  that 
this  was  the  tune  played  by  the  heroic 
band  of  musicians  standing  in  water  up 
to  their  waists  on  the  deck  of  the  ill- 


^I|0rt  ^tamB  of  tl|?  Ifgmtta       73 

fated  steamer,  "The  Titanic,"  as  she 
was  sinking  to  her  grave  in  the  ocean, 
Sunday  night,  April  14-15,  1912,  carry- 
ing with  her  1635  men,  women  and 
children.  What  a  pathetic  appeal  was 
not  that  playing  of  "Guide  me,  O  Thou 
great  Jehovah" — a  prayerful  petition 
to  the  great  and  almighty  God  who 
"holds  the  winds  in  His  fist,  and  the 
seas  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand. " 

An  additional  very  significant  inci- 
dent in  connection  with  this  greatest  of 
all  marine  disasters  may  here  be  very 
appropriately  recorded.  The  incident  is 
narrated  in  several  newspapers  of  Phila- 
delphia, by  Mr.  Laurence  Beasley,  of 
New  York  City,  a  survivor.  Mr.  Beas- 
ley says: 

"One  incident  has  occurred  to  me 
during  the  week  that  has  elapsed  since 
we  landed  in  New  York,  that  may  be  of 
interest    especially    to    those    who    had 


74       §>^xitt  ^tantB  of  tl|f  l^gmtta 

friends  on  board.  Among  the  pas- 
sengers were  the  Rev.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Carter,  who  were  on  their  way  to  Canada. 
Mr.  Carter  was  instrumental  in  arrang- 
ing on  the  Sunday  evening,  a  few  hours 
before  we  struck,  what  he  called  'a 
hymn  sing-song.' 

"There  was  no  evening  service,  and  he 
invited  to  the  saloon  such  passengers  as 
cared  to  come  to  sing  hymns.  Anyone 
was  allowed  to  choose  a  hymn,  and  as 
many  were  present  and  were  thoroughly 
enjoying  the  quite  informal  gathering, 
the  singing  went  on  to  a  quite  late  hour. 

"Mr.  Carter  was  apparently  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  history  of  many  of 
the  hymns,  their  authors,  where  they 
were  written  and  in  what  circumstances, 
and  he  interested  all  present  with  his 
remarks  on  each  hymn  before  it  was 
sung.  I  recollect  that  many  chose  hymns 
dealing  with  safety  at  sea.     Tor  those 


#I|nrt  #t0nfa  of  tl^t  %mttB       75 

in  peril  on  the  sea'  was  sung  by  all  with 
no  hint  of  the  peril  that  lay  but  a  very 
few  miles  ahead. 

**  Mr.  Carter  closed  with  a  few  words  of 
thanks  to  the  Purser  for  allowing  him  to 
use  the  saloon,  made  a  few  remarks  as 
to  the  happy  voyage  we  had  had  on  a 
maiden  trip  and  the  safety  there  was  in 
this  vessel,  and  then  the  meeting  closed 
with  an  impromptu  prayer  by  him. 
This  cannot  have  been  more  than  two 
hours  before  the  Titanic  struck.  My 
motive  in  mentioning  this  is  that  some 
of  those  who  have  lost  relatives  may  like 
to  know  that  their  friends  must  have 
been  helped  and  cheered  at  the  last  by 
the  words  they  had  sung  but  a  short 
time  before;  the  sound  of  singing  voices 
must  have  been  still  a  conscious  one  to 
many  as  they  stood  on  the  deck  faced 
with  the  Teril  on  the  Sea.'" 

Closely  allied  to  this  in  point  of  senti- 


76       ^l|0rt  ^tomB  of  tl|0  Ifgrnna 

ment  is  that  other  well-known  hymn, 
'^^My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee."  The 
author  of  this  was  Dr.  Ray  Palmer,  a 
native  of  Rhode  Island.  He  graduated 
at  Yale  College  in  1830,  and  after  gradu- 
ation found  his  way  to  New  York  city, 
in  great  poverty,  and  there  opened  a 
school  for  young  ladies.  He  had  many 
struggles  for  a  livelihood,  was  much 
alone  and  often  weary  and  sad  at  heart, 
but  he  was  a  most  earnest  Christian. 
In  December  of  the  year  in  which  he 
went  to  New  York,  he  sat  down  in  his 
lonely  room  and  after  a  period  of  medi- 
tation on  the  Saviour's  infinite  love,  and 
the  need  of  more  earnest  self-consecra- 
tion to  His  service  and  praise,  he  wrote 
this  hymn  in  his  pocket  memorandum 
book,  never  intending  that  it  should  be 
seen  by  another  person.  He  wished  no 
one's  eyes  ever  to  rest  on  those  beautiful 
words   of   self-surrender   to    Christ,    be- 


#ij0rt  Btama  of  tift  %mtta       77 


cause  he  regarded  his  hymn  as  a  sacred 
prayer  of  his  own  to  his  Saviour,  and 
would  as  httle  have  thought  of  pre- 
senting it  to  the  pubhc  as  of  making 
known  the  secrets  of  his  own  devotions. 
For  two  years  he  carried  this  hymn  in 
his  pocket,  next  to  his  heart.  But  the 
good  Lord  had  need  of  that  hymn,  and 
took  good  care  that  the  hght  and  com- 
fort there  was  in  it  for  milhons  of  sorrow- 
ing souls  the  world  over,  should  not  re- 
main hidden  under  a  bushel,  but  be  put 
on  the  candlestick  that  it  might  give 
light  to  all  in  the  house.  For,  one  day. 
Dr.  Lowell  Mason  met  young  Ray  Palmer 
on  the  street  in  Boston,  and  asked  him 
to  write  a  hymn  for  his  "Spiritual 
Songs"  which  he  was  then  preparing 
for  the  press.  The  young  college  gradu- 
ate then  modestly  drew  from  his  pocket 
the  lines  "My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee," 
and    gave    them    to    Dr.    Mason.     The 


V 


latter  took  them  home  with  him  to  his 
room,  and  catching  an  inspiration  simi- 
lar to  that  of  the  hymn,  he  composed  a 
tune  called  "Olivet,"  to  which  the 
hymn  has  been  wedded  to  this  day.  -^ 
Dr.  Mason  met  the  author  a  few  days 
afterward,  and  said:  '*Mr.  Palmer,  you 
may  live  many  years  and  do  many  good 
things,  but  I  think  you  will  be  best 
known  to  posterity  as  the  author  of  this 
beautiful  hymn."/  This  prediction  has 
long  since  been  fulfilled.  The  man  who 
first  out  of  the  fullness  of  his  heart  sang 
this  sweet  song  of  Calvary  has  composed 
many  tender  and  beautiful  poems  and 
discourses,  but  "his  devout  mind  flow- 
ered out  in  one  matchless  lily  whose 
rich  odors  have  filled  the  courts  of  our 
God  with  fragrance."  3 On  the  shelves 
and  counters  of  our  booksellers  this  im- 
mortal composition  takes  its  place,  beau- 
tifully bound  and  illustrated,  as  one  of 


A 


the  "Holiday  books,"  and  is  to  be 
found  side  by  side  with  such  master- 
pieces as  Newman's  "Lead,  Kindly 
Light,"  Lyte's  "Abide  with  me,"  and 
Keble's  "Sun  of  my  soul.  Thou  Saviour 
dear."  With  these  we  well  may  rank 
Ray  Palmer's  hymn — 

"My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee, 
Thou  Lamb  of  Calvary, 

Saviour  divine; 
Now  hear  me  while  I  pray; 
Take  all  my  guilt  away; 
Oh,  let  me  from  this  day 
Be  wholly  Thine!" 

This  is  not  the  only  instance  on  record 
of  a  man  writing  many  hymns  that  are 
good  and  but  only  one  that  will  live 
long;  and  the  above  incident  is  quite  in 
line  with  what  we  have  so  often  noticed 
in  these  brief  sketches — that  our  best 
and  finest  hymns  have  been  fairly  wrung 


80      ^Ijort  ^toms  of  tl|f 


out  of  the  soul  of  the  composer  by  some 
great  sorrow,  grief,  or  trouble.  Remem- 
ber, when  you  sing  this  hymn,  that  Ray 
Palmer  was  poor,  alone  in  a  great  city, 
unfriended,  naturally  timid  and  reserved, 
not  knowing  what  hardships  might  be 
before  him  in  the  great  world,  and  feeling 
his  loneliness  and  helplessness,  turned  in 
whole-hearted,  trustful  faith  to  God  and 
Christ. 


^l|0rt  BtomB  nf  tl|?  l?gm«B       81 


CHAPTER  VII 

To  the  pen  of  the  late  Rev.  Dr.  Henry 
Harbaugh,  the  president  of  the  Theo- 
logical Seminary  of  the  Reformed  Church, 
located  at  the  time  at  Mercersburg,  Pa., 
we  are  indebted  for  several  most  beauti- 
ful and  enduring  hymns.  The  first  of 
these  is — 

"Jesus,  to  Thy  cross  I  hasten. 

In  all  weariness  my  home; 
Let  Thy  dying  love  come  o'er  me. 

Light  and  covert  in  the  gloom. 
Saviour,  hide  me,  Saviour,  hide  me, 

Till  the  hour  of  gloom  is  o'er!" 

The  hymn  comprises  three  stanzas, 
and  appears  in  many  collections  anony- 
mously, for  it  is  only  of  late  that  the 


authorship  has  come  to  Hght.  In  leaf- 
ing over  a  book  of  poems  by  the  author 
of  this  hymn,  entitled,  "Harbaugh's 
Poems,"  a  friend  marked  its  first  ap- 
pearance in  that  collection. 

Dr.  Harbaugh  died  in  1867,  while 
president  of  the  Seminary  above  named. 
He  was  a  diligent  student  and  scholar  as 
well  as  a  fruitful  writer,  especially  of 
lyric  poetry.  He  wrote  quite  a  number 
of  hymns  in  addition  to  the  one  above 
mentioned,  of  which,  however,  none 
seems  likely  to  rival  the  excellency  of  the 
following,  which  has  found  its  way  into 
the  hymnals  of  most  of  the  churches,  and 
bids  fair  to  be  in  favor  while  time  shall 
last — 

"Jesus,  I  live  to  Thee, 
The  loveliest  and  best. 
My  life  in  Thee,  Thy  life  in  me, 
In  Thy  blest  love  I  rest. 


Jesus,  I  die  to  Thee, 

Whenever  death  shall  come. 

To  die  in  Thee  is  life  to  me 
In  my  eternal  home. 

Whether  to  live  or  die, 

I  know  not  which  is  best. 
To  live  in  Thee  is  bliss  to  me — 

To  die  is  endless  rest. 

Living  or  dying.  Lord, 

I  ask  but  to  be  Thine. 
My  Ufe  in  Thee,  Thy  life  in  me. 

Makes  heaven  forever  mine." 

That  is  truly  a  hymn  that  will  live. 
Like  Ray  Palmer's,  this  hymn  breathes 
the  spirit  of  utter  and  absolute  self-con- 
secration to  Christ.  It  is  full  of  "sweet- 
ness and  light."  Perhaps  the  author's 
own  triumphant  death  was  the  best  ex- 
emplification of  his  hymn.  The  beloved 
president  of  the  Seminary  lay  dying  in 
the  darkened  chamber  at  Mercersburg, 


84       Bi^axt  BtansB  of  ttjp  %m«0 

and  anxious  and  affectionate  friends 
moved  about  with  noiseless  tread  and 
eyes  suffused  with  tears.  Could  it  be 
that  he  who,  as  man  looked  upon  it,  was 
so  much  needed,  and  without  whom  it 
was  feared  by  many  the  Church  could 
not  successfully  carry  forward  its  work, 
must  be  taken  away?  Just  when  the 
dying,  weary  man  seemed  to  be  passing 
away,  as  he  lay  in  a  deep  and  apparently 
unconscious  state,  some  one  wishing  to 
arouse  him  that  he  might  speak  yet  one 
more  word  to  his  sorrowing  household, 
called  him  with  a  loud  voice.  Opening 
his  eyes  wearily,  as  if  he  had  come  from 
far  away,  the  dying  man  said  with  a 
smile,  *'0h,  why  called  ye  me  back  from 
the  golden  gates?"  Then  he  relapsed 
into  that  deep  sleep  which  knows  no 
waking  for  the  believer  until  he  wakes  in 
the  blessed  land  beyond. 
The  hymn  commencing 


^Ijnrt  Btarl^B  of  ti^t  %mtta       85 

"Jesus,  and  shall  it  ever  be 
A  mortal  man  ashamed  of  Thee  ? " 

apart  from  the  real  value  of  the  com- 
position, is  remarkable  for  the  fact  that 
it  was  written  by  a  boy  only  ten  years 
of  age.  The  author  of  it  was  Joseph 
Grigg.  It  first  appeared  in  an  English 
magazine,  and  was  entitled  '*  Shame  of 
Jesus  conquered  by  love.  By  a  youth 
of  ten  years."  It  was,  no  doubt,  or- 
iginally suggested  by  the  shame  which 
young  people  often  experience  in  making 
an  open  and  public  confession  of  Christ's 
name,  and  in  witnessing  the  same  in  the 
company  of  godless  companions.  This 
feeling  of  shame  of  religion  is  one  of  the 
devices  of  the  evil  one  to  lead  the  souls 
of  men  astray.  It  is  a  very  common 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  young  believers 
particularly,  and  in  many  cases  it  proves 
almost  insuperable.     With  this  terrible 


86       #I|ort  BtantB  of  tift  %mtta 

threat  of  "what  the  world  will  say," 
the  evil  one  frightens  many  poor  souls 
away  from  the  open  door  of  mercy. 
Young  men  are  ashamed  to  confess 
Christ's  name  lest  their  godless  com- 
panions make  sport  of  them.  If  these 
lines  should  chance  to  fall  under  the  eye 
of  any  such  young  people  we  kindly  ask 
them,  for  their  own  soul's  sake,  to  read 
this  hymn,  and  to  remember  that  it  was 
written  by  a  young  boy  who  was  in  the 
same  case  as  themselves.  It  is  related 
that  a  young  person  who  had  made  a 
profession  of  religion  and  was  much 
teased  and  persecuted  by  godless  com- 
panions, stood  firm;  and  on  being  asked 
by  his  pastor  why  he  did  not  give  way, 
he  said:  "Sir,  I  once  heard  you  say  in  a 
sermon  that  if  we  let  the  wicked  laugh 
us  out  of  heaven  into  hell,  they  could 
not  laugh  us  out  of  hell  into  heaven 
again. " 


The  author  of  this  hymn  was  much 
persecuted,  for  he  was  compelled  to  live 
and  work  in  circumstances  in  which  he 
was  obliged  to  associate  with  profane 
persons  to  whom  all  religious  belief  was 
a  standing  theme  of  jest  and  mockery. 
But  the  boy  clung  to  Jesus,  well  content 
not  to  be  ashamed  of  Jesus,  and  only 
hoping  that  Jesus  would  not  be  ashamed 
of  him. 

"Jesus!  and  shall  it  ever  be, 
A  mortal  man  ashamed  of  Thee? 
Ashamed  of  Thee!  whom  angels  praise, 
Whose  glories  shine  through  endless  days  ? 

Ashamed  of  Jesus!     Sooner  far 
Let  evening  blush  to  own  a  star; 
He  sheds  the  beams  of  light  divine 
O'er  this  benighted  soul  of  mine. 

Ashamed  of  Jesus!  Just  as  soon 
Let  midnight  be  ashamed  of  noon; 
'Tis  midnight  with  my  soul,  till  He, 
Bright  morning  star,  bids  darkness  flee. " 


88       i'liort  BtBmn  of  tl|?  %mtta 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Everybody  knows  the  good  old  mis- 
sionary hymn,  "From  Greenland's  icy 
mountains,"  but  not  everybody  has 
heard  the  story  of  its  composition. 
The  author  of  it  was  Reginald  Heber, 
D.  D.,  who  after  the  composition  of  the 
hymn  himself  became  a  missionary  to 
India,  and  died  Bishop  of  Calcutta.  He 
was  one  of  the  most  accomplished  schol- 
ars whom  the  University  of  Oxford  ever 
produced.  He  was  born  at  Malpas,  in 
Cheshire,  England,  in  the  year  1783. 
At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  was  entered 
at  Brasenose  College,  Oxford,  where  he 
became  a  distinguished  student,  carry- 
ing away  many  of  the  highest  prizes  for 
poems  and  essays.  His  prize  poem  on 
Palestine  is  generally  considered  the  best 


REGINALD  HEBER, 


ever  written  at  Oxford.  His  fame  rests 
mainly  upon  his  hymns  which,  as  hterary 
compositions,  rank  among  the  best  in  the 
Enghsh  language.  From  his  very  earliest 
years  he  was  remarkable  for  his  piety 
and  great  kindness  and  affection.  So 
great  and  accurate  was  his  knowledge  of 
the  Bible  that  "when  only  five  years  old, 
when  his  father  and  some  friends  were 
discussing  as  to  the  book  of  the  Bible 
where  some  particular  passage  could  be 
found,  they  turned  to  little  Reginald 
for  information,  and  he  soon  laid  finger 
on  chapter  and  verse."  As  an  instance 
of  the  pious  turn  of  his  mind,  it  is  re- 
lated that  when  very  young,  hearing  the 
conundrum,  ''Where  was  Moses  when 
the  light  went  out,"  he  solemnly  said, 
"On  Mount  Nebo;  for  there  he  died, 
and  it  may  be  said  that  his  lamp  of  life 
went  out  there. "  He  was  also  so  benev- 
olent that  he  would  give  all  that  he  had 


90       i'lfort  §>ttimB  of  %  %mtta 

to  the  poor,  so  that  his  parents  had  to 
sew  the  bank-notes,  which  they  gave 
him  for  his  half-years  school  money,  in 
the  lining  of  his  pockets,  that  he  might 
not  give  all  his  money  away  in  charity 
on  the  road  to  school.  In  1807  he  was 
admitted  to  orders,  and  after  sixteen 
years  of  faithful  labor  in  the  ministry  in 
England,  he  went  to  India  as  a  mission- 
ary in  1823,  where  he  labored  for  a  period 
of  three  years,  with  such  devotion  to 
his  work  among  the  heathen  that,  from 
over  exertion  in  an  unfavorable  climate, 
he  died  in  an  apoplectic  fit  while  in  his 
bath,  April  13,  1826. 

Heber  was  the  author  of  many  hymns, 
all  alike  distinguished  by  finish  and 
style,  pathos,  and  soaring  aspiration. 
To  his  poetic  genius  we  are  indebted  for 
**Lo,  He  comes,  with  clouds  descending," 
"By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill,"  "Jesus 
Christ    is   risen    today,"    "Holy,    holy, 


^I|0rt  ^taxlts  of  tlj?  %mttB       91 

holy,  Lord  God  Almighty,"  "Thou  art 
gone  to  the  grave,  but  we  will  not  de- 
plore Thee,"  and  others:  among  which 
we  pause  to  mention  briefly  that  ever 
delightful  Christmas  hymn,  *' Brightest 
and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning." 
In  some  hymn  books  this  hymn  begins 
"Hail  the  blest  morn  when  the  great 
Mediator,"  but  in  the  greater  number 
of  the  books  it  stands  as  above — 

"Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning, 
Dawn  on  our  darkness  and  lend  us  Thine  aid; 

Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 
Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is  laid. 

Cold  on  His  cradle  the  dew  drops  are  shining, 
Low  lies  His  head  with  the  beasts  of  the  stall. 

Angels  adore  Him,  in  slumbers  reclining. 
Maker  and  Monarch  and  Saviour  of  all. 

Say,  shall  we  yield  Him,  in  costly  devotion, 
Odors  of  Edom  and  offerings  divine. 

Gems  of  the  mountain,  and  pearls  of  the  Ocean, 
Myrrh  from  the  forest  or  gold  from  the  mine? 


Vainly  we  offer  each  ample  oblation, 

Vainly  with  gifts  would  His  favor  secure; 

Richer  by  far  is  the  heart's  adoration, 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the  poor." 

When  or  why  the  first  stanza  of  this 
hymn  was  changed,  the  writer  has  been 
unable  to  discover:  but  whether  sung  in 
the  old  way  or  the  new,  it  is  in  every 
regard  one  of  our  choicest  Christmas 
hymns. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  story  of  the 
composition  of  "From  Greenland's  icy 
mountains."  For  many  years  before  he 
himself  went  to  India,  Heber  was  an 
enthusiast  on  the  subject  of  missions. 
In  1819,  four  years  before  he  went  out 
amongst  the  heathen  to  preach  the 
gospel,  a  letter  was  sent  forth  by  the 
king,  authorizing  an  offering  to  be  taken 
in  every  church  and  chapel  in  England, 
connected  with  the  Church  of  England, 
for  missions.     On  the  evening  of  Whit- 


^l|ort  BtoruB  0f  tij?  %mna       93 

Sunday,  which  was  the  day  appointed 
for  this  purpose,  Heber  had  engaged  to 
dehver  the  first  of  a  series  of  evening 
lectures  in  the  church  at  Wrexham, 
which  was  in  charge  of  his  father-in-law, 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Shipley.  On  the  Saturday 
previous,  as  they  were  seated  around 
the  table  at  the  parsonage,  Dr.  Shipley 
requested  his  son-in-law  to  write  some- 
thing for  them  to  sing  in  the  morning, 
suitable  to  the  missionary  service.  Heber 
at  once  retired  from  the  little  circle, 
and  withdrew  to  a  corner  of  the  room. 
After  a  while  Dr.  Shipley  asked, 
"What  have  you  written.'^"  Heber  then 
read  the  first  three  stanzas  of  that  mag- 
nificent hymn  which  he  had  so  quickly 
written : 

"From  Greenland's  icy  mountains, 
From  India's  coral  strand, 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 
Roll  down  their  golden  sand; 


94       S'liort  Btuma  of  tlf?  il|gmtta 


From  many  an  ancient  river. 

From  many  a  palmy  plain. 
They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  error's  chain. 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 

Blow  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  isle, 
Though  every  prospect  pleases, 

And  only  man  is  vile; 
In  vain  with  lavish  kindness 

The  gifts  of  God  are  strewn; 
The  heathen  in  his  blindness 

Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone. 

Can  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 

With  wisdom  from  on  high — 
Can  we  to  men  benighted 

The  lamp  of  life  deny.'* 
Salvation!     O  Salvation! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 
Till  each  remotest  nation 

Has  learned  Messiah's  name!'* 

"There,  there!"  joyfully  and  triumph- 


^i|0rt  BtatuB  a{  tijp  %mnB       95 

antly  exclaimed  Dr.  Shipley.  "That 
will  do— that  will  do!" 

"No,  no,"  said  Heber,  "the  sense  is 
not  yet  complete." 

Taking  the  manuscript  again  in  his 
hand  and  retiring  a  second  time  to  his 
nook  in  the  corner,  in  a  few  moments  he 
wrote  that  magnificent  fourth  stanza, 

"Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  His  story. 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll, 
Till  like  a  sea  of  glory 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole; 
Till  o'er  our  ransomed  nature 

The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain. 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator, 

In  bliss  returns  to  reign. " 

The  next  morning,  in  the  church  at 
Wrexham,  this  great  missionary  hymn 
was  sung  for  the  first  time  and  it  was 
not  long  before  it  was  adopted  all  over 
the  world,  and  it  will  never  cease  to  be 
sung  so  long  as  there  is  a  single  heathen 


96       ^lyort  ^tortfB  nf  t\^t  %mttH 

to  be  converted.  Like  many  of  our 
finest  hymns,  it  was  born  on  the  instant, 
coming  by  a  sudden  flash-Hke  inspiration; 
and  the  original  copy  still  shows  that  it 
was  so  accurately  written  that  the  poet 
afterward  changed  but  a  single  word. 
Let  it  be  remembered ,  when  we  sing 
this  hymn,  that  the  author  of  it  died  a 
missionary  among  the  heathen  in  India. 


^I|ort  Btama  ttf  t^t  l|am«a       97 


CHAPTER  IX 

"Just  as  I  am,  without  One  Plea." 

A  faithful  pastor  of  a  small  flock  once 
met  one  of  the  young  ladies  of  his  con- 
gregation on  the  street,  as  she  was  on 
the  way  to  her  dressmaker  to  have  a 
dress  made  for  a  ball.  Stopping  her, 
he  frankly  asked  her  mission  and  she 
frankly  told  him.  "I  wish,"  said  he, 
*'you  were  a  Christian  woman;  that  you 
would  forsake  all  these  frivolities,  and 
learn  to  live  nearer  to  God.  Won't  you 
stay  away  from  this  ball,  if  for  nothing 
else,  because  I  ask  it?"  She  replied, 
*'I  wish  you  would  mind  your  own 
business,  sir.  Good  day."  The  young 
lady  went  to  the  ball  and  danced  all 
night.  She  went  home,  and  when  her 
head  was  at  rest  upon  her  pillow,  con- 


98       ^Iinrt  ^tnrt^B  of  t\^t  %mtt0 

science  began  to  do  its  work.  She 
thought  how  she  had  insulted  her  pastor, 
the  best  friend  she  had,  perhaps,  in  all 
the  world.  The  torment  of  conscience 
was  kept  up  for  three  days  until  she 
could  endure  it  no  longer.  Going  to  her 
pastor's  study,  she  told  him  how  sorry 
she  was  that  she  had  said  words  that  had 
caused  his  heart  to  ache.  *'I  have  been 
the  most  miserable  girl  in  the  world  for 
the  past  three  days,"  she  said,  "and  now 
I  want  to  become  a  Christian.  I  want 
to  be  saved.  Oh!  what  must  I  do  to  be 
saved  .f^"  The  old  pastor,  with  his  heart 
full  of  compassion  and  sympathy  and 
love  for  the  contrite  spirit  before  him, 
pointed  her  to  the  Lamb  of  God,  and  told 
her  how  she  must  give  herself  to  God 
just  as  she  was.  "What!  just  as  I  am, 
and  I  one  of  the  most  sinful  creatures  in 
the  world?  You  surely  do  not  mean  to 
say  that  God  will  accept  me  just  as  I 


^Ijon  Btaxv^B  of  %  ^^ttmB       99 

am?"  *'I  mean  just  that,"  was  the 
pastor's  reply;  "God  wants  you  to  come 
to  Him  just  as  you  are."  The  young 
lady  went  home,  and  retiring  to  her 
room,  knelt  beside  her  bed  and  prayed 
God  to  take  her  just  as  she  was.  (Reach- 
ing to  a  chair  that  stood  by  the  bed,  she 
took  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil  that 
were  there,  and  under  these  holy  influen- 
ces wrote  the  verses  of  that  hymn  so 
dear  to  the  heart  of  every  Christian: 

"Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea, 
But  that  Thy  blood  was  shed  for  me, 
And  that  Thou  bid'st  me  come  to  Thee, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come! 

Just  as  I  am,  and  waiting  not 
To  rid  my  soul  of  one  dark  blot. 
To  Thee,  whose  blood  can  cleanse  each  spot, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come ! 

Just  as  I  am,  though  tossed  about 
With  many  a  conflict,  many  a  doubt. 


100     ^Ijnrt  BtantB  of  tl^t  %mttfi 

With  fears  within  and  foes  without, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come! 


Just  as  I  am!  Thy  love  unknown 
Has  broken  every  barrier  down; 
Now,  to  be  Thine,  yea.  Thine  alone, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come! 

The    lady    was    Miss    Charlotte    Elliot. 
The  poem  wa§_written  in  1834. 

The  Hymn,  "Stand  up,  Stand  up  for 
Jesus.  " 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  we  know  so 
little  of  the  circumstances  under  which 
many  of  our  hymns  were  written.  In 
many  instances,  unfortunately,  all  that 
can  be  ascertained  is  the  author's  name 
and  the  date  of  the  composition.  It 
would  certainly  add  much  to  our  interest 
in  and  our  intelligent  use  of  very  many 
of  the  hymns  if  there  had  been  preserved 


^\)tiVt  BtOt'UB  of  tl|?  IfgmttB       101 

for  us  some  particular  account  of  the  con- 
ditions and  circumstances  under  which 
they  were  first  given  to  the  Church. 

We  are  thankful  that  it  has  happened 
differently  with  the  hymn  we  are  pres- 
ently considering — "Stand  up,  stand  up 
for  Jesus. "  It  was  written  in  the  year 
1858,  bj^  the  Rev.  George  Duffield,  Jr., 
a  Presbyterian  minister  in  Philadelphia; 
and  we  are  fortunate  in  having  preserved 
to  us  a  well  authenticated  account  of  the 
origin  of  this  deservedly  popular  hymn, 
written  for  "The  Sunday  School  Times," 
some  years  ago,  by  the  Rev.  Samuel 
Duffield,  the  son  of  the  composer.  The 
article  says: 

"The  hymn,  'Stand  up,  stand  up  for 
Jesus,'  has  had  such  a  history,  and  has 
been  so  honored  of  the  Lord  in  the  work 
of  the  Church,  that  these  facts  absolve 
me  from  any  feeling  of  delicacy  in  offer- 
ing,   for    the    first    time,    its    complete 


102     #l|0rt  ^0ma  of  tlj?  fgmtw 

history.  Its  author,  my  dear  and  hon- 
ored father,  could  scarcely  do  more  than 
give  the  mere  unadorned  facts.  I  think 
it  is  possible  for  me,  in  these  columns,  to 
correct  certain  errors,  and  to  add  certain 
elements  of  interest  to  the  account. 
And  when  I  remember  that  the  same 
hand  now  pens  these  lines  which  once 
copied  that  hymn  for  the  printer,  I  feel 
glad  that  it  is  permitted  to  me  to  tell 
the  story  of  the  hymn. 

"In  the  great  revival  of  1857-58, 
Jayne's  Hall,  on  Chestnut  street,  Philadel- 
phia, was  the  largest  room  which  could  be 
procured  for  the  noon  prayer-meeting. 
In  this  some  three  thousand  persons 
were  used  to  assemble,  and  there,  one 
day,  I  saw  a  distant,  slight  figure,  rise, 
and  heard  for  a  few  moments  a  silvery 
and  resonant  voice.  It  struck  upon  my 
ear  with  a  peculiar  power,  and  I  have 
never  forgotten  the  person  nor  the  tone. 


Bi}tixi  BtamB  of  tljt  ^ttutH     103 

That  was  the  first  and  the  only  time 
that  I  saw  or  heard  Dudley  Atkins 
Tyng,  rector  of  the  Church  of  the  Epiph- 
any, Philadelphia.  It  was  only  a  few 
weeks,  indeed  as  I  recall  it,  it  was  only 
but  a  few  days  after  this,  that  we  had 
the  news  of  his  accident.  It  was  in 
1858.  He  had  left  his  study,  wearing 
his  study-gown,  of  silk  and  very  strong, 
and  had  gone  to  the  farm,  where  a  mule 
was  at  work  in  a  *  horse-power '  which 
drove  a  corn-sheller.  Every  Pennsyl- 
vanian  of  those  days  knows  the  great 
cogged  wheels  at  the  side  of  such  a 
machine,  and  the  danger  of  being  caught 
in  them.  But  Dudley  Tyng,  with 
a  natural  and  self -forgetful  kindness, 
reached  over  to  pat  the  mule,  and  the 
cogs  dragged  his  sleeve,  and  then  his 
arm,  into  them.  It  was  all  over  in  a 
flash  .  .  .  The  injury  (as  I  have  always 
understood)    was    met    by  amputation; 


104     §>\}avt  BtontSi  of  t\)t  l|gmna 

then  by  another,  then  by  a  third  at  the 
shoulder,  but  all  to  no  effect.  The  sin- 
ews and  muscles  had  been  too  deeply 
involved,  and  the  man  died.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  Young  Men's  Christian 
Association,  of  which  Mr.  George  H. 
Stuart  was  then  president.  So  also  was 
I  a  member,  with  other  boys  and  lads 
of  my  age.  To  us  he  sent  the  stirring 
message:  'Tell  them  to  stand  up  for 
Jesus.' 

"  I  need  not  say  how  wide  was  the  lam- 
entation, nor  how  his  sermon  on  Exodus 
10:  11 — *'Go  now,  ye  that  are  men,  and 
serve  the  Lord,"  preached  to  a  great 
audience  on  the  Sunday  before  his  death, 
was  recalled  by  many.  On  the  Sunday 
succeeding  his  death,  my  father,  the 
Rev.  George  Duffield,  Jr.,  who  was 
the  pastor  of  the  Central  Presbyterian 
Church,  Northern  Liberties,  at  Fourth 
and  Coates  streets,  and  who  had  been  a 


^I|0rt  hiatus  of  tljf  %mttB     105 


close  and  warm  friend  of  Mr.  Tyng, 
preached  a  sermon  from  the  text,  Ephesi- 
ans  6:  14  —  "Stand,  therefore,  having 
your  loins  girt  about  with  truth,  and 
having  on  the  breastplate  of  righteous- 
ness." At  its  conclusion  he  read  the 
hymn,  which  he  had  written  by  way  of 
peroration.  Mr.  Benedict  D.  Stewart, 
at  that  time  superintendent  of  the  Sun- 
day School,  requested  a  copy  for  publi- 
cation. This  I  made,  by  my  father's 
direction,  in  a  rude,  boyish,  scrawl,  and 
carried  it  to  the  printing-office  of  a  Mr. 
Thompson,  who  was  a  member  of  the 
Coates  street  church,  and  whose  place 
of  business  was,  I  think,  in  the  historic 
building  on  the  corner  of  Sixth  and 
Market  streets.  There  were  a  number 
of  the  leaflets  printed.  I  remember 
just  how  they  looked  and  I  would  give 
a  good  deal  to  get  one  now  as  my  own. 
"The  hymn  had  six  stanzas.     It  was 


106     ^Ijnrt  BtamB  nf  %  IfgrnttB 

first  copied  into  the  columns  of  a  Baptist 
paper.  Shortly  afterward  it  found  its 
way  into  the  hymnal  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church  and  gradually  into  the  hymnals 
of  all  the  churches.  It  has  been  trans- 
lated into  several  other  languages,  in- 
cluding the  Latin.  The  latest  render- 
ing now  lies  before  me,  written  with  a 
brush,  Chinese  characters.  It  is  a  ver- 
sion of  three  stanzas  by  the  Rev.  W.  J. 
McKee,  of  Ning-po. 

"My  father  went  to  the  barn-floor 
shortly  after  the  accident,  saw  the  place 
and  heard  the  story  from  an  eye-witness. 
It  was  on  his  return  that  he  composed 
the  hymn." 


Bl\avt  BtamB  of  %  %m«B     107 


CHAPTER  X 

It  is  not  often  that  a  good  and  lasting 
hymn  is  written  with  intention  and  de- 
sign. Very  generally  the  best  hymns 
have  come,  as  it  were,  suddenly  and  un- 
accountably, as  if  by  a  divine  inspira- 
tion, and  very  often  their  authors  neither 
anticipated  nor  could  account  for  their 
subsequent  popularity.  To  this  general 
rule,  however,  there  have  been  some 
notable  and  conspicuous  exceptions.  The 
grand  old  missionary  hymn,  "From 
Greenland's  icy  mountains,"  for  in- 
stance, was,  as  we  have  seen,  written  by 
request.  And  the  same  is  true  also 
of  that  stirring  Processional  hymn, 
**Onward,  Christian  Soldiers."  This, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  was  written  to 
order.     Its  author,  the  Rev.  S.  Baring 


108     #l|0rt  ^iBmB  at  tli?  %mtta 


Gould,  an  English  clergyman,  himself 
tells  us  that  "It  was  written  in  very 
simple  fashion,  and  without  a  thought 
of  publication.  Whit-Monday  being  a 
great  day  in  Yorkshire  for  school  festivi- 
ties, it  was  arranged,  on  the  anniversary 
of  1865,  that  our  school  should  unite 
with  that  of  a  neighboring  village,  and 
wishing  them  to  sing  as  they  marched 
along,  I  vainly  tried  to  find  something 
suitable  for  the  purpose.  At  length  I 
resolved  to  write  something  myself, 
the  result  being  *  Onward,  Christian 
Soldiers.*  It  was  hurriedly  composed 
and  had  some  faulty  rhymes,  and  cer- 
tainly nothing  has  so  much  surprised 
me  as  its  popularity." 

There  is  a  hymn,  or  Christian  song, 
entitled  "Shining  Shore,"  which,  though 
falling  somewhat  short  of  any  high  hym- 
nological  standard,  has  yet  been  greatly 


^l|0rt  Btar'xBa  at  ttyr  ifgrntta     109 


blessed  in  the  experience  of  God's  people 
for  many  years  past — 

"My  days  are  gliding  swiftly  by, 

And  I,  a  pilgrim  stranger. 
Would  not  detain  them  as  they  fly. 

Those  hours  of  toil  and  danger. 
For,  Oh,  we  stand  on  Jordan's  strand, 

Our  friends  are  passing  over, 
And  just  before  the  shining  shore 

We  may  almost  discover. " 

Perhaps  the  music  to  which  these 
words  were  set  and  have  always  since 
been  sung  have  had  quite  as  much  to  do 
with  the  popularity  of  the  song  as  the 
words  themselves. 

As  for  the  words — they  were  written 
by  David  Nelson,  born  in  Tennessee, 
1793;  a  physician,  an  army  surgeon  in 
the  war  of  1812;  professed  religion,  be- 
came an  infidel;  repented  of  his  infidelity 
and  became  a  Christian  again;  became  a 
minister;    preached    in    Tennessee    and 


110     ^l|0rt  0t0rt?B  nf  tl|0  %mtia 

Kentucky;  founded  Marion  College  in 
Missouri,  1830,  of  which  he  was  the 
president.  He  strongly  favored  emanci- 
pation, and  that  brought  him  into  so 
much  trouble  that  he  removed  to  Illi- 
nois, where  he  died  1844. 

He  had  a  charming  voice,  it  is  said, 
and  used  it  with  great  effect,  thus  an- 
ticipating the  singing  evangelist  of  a 
later  day.  He  was  so  much  interested 
in  the  colonization  of  the  negro  that  he 
frequently  got  into  trouble.  On  one  oc- 
casion, at  the  close  of  the  meeting,  he 
asked  all  who  wished  to  remain  so  to  do 
and  discuss  the  negro  problem  of  his  day 
with  him.  Quite  a  number  tarried  and 
disorder  followed,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  in  those  days 
of  hot  blood?  Nelson  was  driven  from 
his  home,  he  had  to  flee  for  his  life. 
After  long  wandering,  he  reached  the 
Mississippi  river  and  concealed  himself 


Bl^ott  ^tama  of  tl|?  Ifymtts     111 

in  the  shrubbery  on  its  banks,  at  a  point 
where  passengers  were  conveyed  to  the 
opposite  shore.  As  he  lay  there  with 
hungry  eyes  watching  them  so  easily 
passing  over  to  the  landing  which  he 
could  ''almost  discover,"  he  took  out 
an  envelope  from  his  pocket  and  there 
wrote  this  song  of  the  Christian's  long- 
ing for  a  safe  and  blessed  passage  to  the 
"Shining  Shore." 

But  the  words  without  the  music 
would  probably  have  been  lost  or  over- 
looked. However,  a  directing  provi- 
dence took  care  that  they  should  be 
wedded  to  suitable  strains  of  stirring  and 
inspiring  song.  They  were  like  a  seed 
thrown  broadcast  and  at  hazard,  which, 
finding  a  favorable  soil,  springs  up  and 
grows  into  a  noble  tree. 

It  is  queer  how  such  things  come 
about.  Massachusetts  is  a  good  way 
from  Missouri,  but  one  day,  George  F. 


112     ^l|0rt  Btamn  of  %  %mtt0 

Root,  a  musical  composer,  was  at  the 
home  of  his  parents  at  Willow  Farm  in 
that  New  England  state,  for  there  the 
scattered  children  gathered  every  sum- 
mer from  far  and  wide. 

*'I  was  at  some  work  at  some  songs, 
one  morning,"  the  composer  afterward 
said,  "when  my  mother,  passing  through 
the  room  where  I  was  at  work,  laid  a 
slip  from  a  religious  paper  before  me, 
saying,  'George,  I  think  that  would  be 
good  for  music'  As  I  looked  at  the 
poem  beginning,  *My  days  are  gliding 
swiftly  by,'  a  simple  melody  sang  itself 
into  my  mind.  I  jotted  it  down  and 
went  on  with  my  work.  Later  when  I 
took  it  up  to  harmonize  it,  the  tune 
seemed  so  commonplace  that  I  hesitated, 
but  finally  deciding  that  it  might  be  use- 
ful to  somebody,  I  completed  it.  When 
in  after  years  it  was  sung  in  all  the 
churches  and  Sunday  Schools  in  the  land, 


Original  Score  of  Hymn  by  Lewis  H.  Redner 


IX — . -^ % J — r* V-^^ ~T~~ 


y^^  ^oCb  c^  '^j^  -^'^  ^ 


Dr   Philips  Brooks  wrote  the  famous  hymn,  "O,  Little  Town  of 
Bethlehem,"  and  at  his  request  Mr.  Redner  set  it  to  music. 


01|0rt  ^tflrt^B  of  %  %m«B     113 

and  in  every  tongue  where  missions  were 
established,  thus  demonstrating  that  it 
had  the  mysterious  thing  called  vitality, 
I  tried  to  see  why  it  should  be  so,  but 
in  vain." 

Of  course;  for  man  seeth  not  as  God 
seeth. 

Speaking,  now,  of  the  singular  provi- 
dence of  God,  who  thus  caused  an  in- 
spiration of  a  sacred  song  to  be  given  in 
one  part  of  the  world  and  its  melody  in 
another  part  far  away,  we  recall  what  we 
have  read  about  that  favorite  Christmas 
hymn — 

"O  little  town  of  Bethlehem! 

How  still  we  see  thee  lie: 
Above  thy  deep  and  dreamless  sleep 

The  silent  stars  go  by; 
Yet  in  thy  dark  streets  shineth 

The  everlasting  Light; 
The  hopes  and  fears  of  all  the  years 

Are  met  in  thee  tonight. " 


114     ^l|ort  ^0ma  of  %  %mtta 

As  is  well  known,  it  was  written  by 
Phillips  Brooks,  at  that  time  the  Rector 
of  Holy  Trinity  Church,  Philadelphia. 
Dr.  Brooks  received  his  inspiration  for 
this  Christmas  carol  one  evening  in 
Christmas  week  in  1865.  He  was  travel- 
ing in  the  Holy  Land  and  on  this  evening 
was  riding  on  the  historic  plain  of 
Bethlehem  from  which  the  shepherds 
beheld  the  star.  The  inspiration  was 
there  given,  although  the  words  were 
not  written  until  a  year  later.  The  cir- 
cumstances in  which  they  were  set  to 
music  are  related  by  Mr.  L.  H.  Redner, 
who  at  the  time  was  the  organist  of 
Holy  Trinity,  the  superintendent  of  the 
Sunday  School,  and  a  teacher  of  one  of 
the  classes. 

"As  Christmas  of  1868  approached," 
Mr.  Redner  said,  "Mr.  Brooks  told  me 
that  he  had  written  a  simple  little  carol 
for  the  Christmas  Sunday  School  service. 


^l|0rt  Bt(ir\tB  0f  %  %mnH     115 

and  he  asked  me  to  write  the  tune  to  it. 
The  simple  music  was  written  in  great 
haste  and  under  great  pressure.  We 
were  to  practice  it  on  the  following 
Sunday.  Mr.  Brooks  came  to  me  on 
Friday  and  said,  'Redner,  have  you 
ground  out  that  music  yet  to  'O  little 
town  of  Bethlehem?'  I  replied  that  I 
had  not,  but  that  he  should  have  it  by 
Sunday.  On  the  Saturday  night  pre- 
vious my  brain  was  all  confused  about 
the  tune.  I  thought  more  about  the 
Sunday  School  lesson  than  I  did  about 
the  music.  But  I  was  roused  from 
sleep  late  in  the  night  hearing  an  angel- 
strain  whispering  in  my  ear  and  seizing 
a  piece  of  music-paper,  I  jotted  down 
the  treble  of  the  tune  as  we  now  have  it, 
and  on  Sunday  morning,  before  going  to 
church,  I  filled  in  the  harmony.  Neither 
Mr.  Brooks  nor  I  thought  the  carol  or 


116     ^I|ort  ^tatxsB  of  %  %m«a 

the  music  to  it  would  live  beyond  the 
Christmas  of   1868. 

*'My  recollection  is  that  Richard  Mc- 
Cauley,  who  then  had  a  book  store  on 
Chestnut  street,  west  of  Thirteenth, 
printed  it  on  leaflets  for  sale.  The  Rev. 
Dr.  Huntington,  the  Rector  of  All 
Saints  Church,  Worcester,  Mass.,  asked 
permission  to  print  it  in  his  Sunday 
School  hymn  and  tune  book,  entitled 
"The  Church  Porch,"  and  it  was  he 
who  christened  the  music,  "Saint  Louis." 


Bi^att  ^tort^a  of  %  %mttfi     117 


CHAPTER  XI 

What  strange  contradictions,  what 
veritable  ironies  there  are  in  this  myste- 
rious Hfe  of  ours.  Here  is  the  hymn  or 
song — call  it  what  you  please — *'Home, 
Sweet  Home."  The  author  was  John 
Howard  Payne,  an  American  dramatist 
and  actor,  born  in  New  York,  1792,  died 
at  Tunis,  Africa,  1852.  He  had  no 
home  of  his  own  and  died  in  a  foreign 
land,  being  U.  S.  Consul  to  Tunis. 
There  his  body  was  buried  and  for 
many  long  years  lay  in  a  grave  unmarked 
by  a  tombstone.  '*How  often,"  said  he, 
"have  I  been  in  the  heart  of  Paris,  Ber- 
lin or  London  or  some  other  city,  and 
heard  persons  playing  or  singing  'Home, 
Sweet  Home,'  without  a  shilling  to  buy 
the  next  meal  or  a  place  to  lay  my  head. 


118     Bl^ott  ^toma  of  tlj?  %m«H 

The  world  has  sung  my  song  till  every 
heart  is  familiar  with  its  melody,  yet  I 
have  been  a  poor  wanderer  from  my 
boyhood.  My  country  has  turned  me 
from  office,  and  in  old  age  I  have  to  sub- 
mit to  humiliation  for  my  daily  bread." 
And  yet,  before  he  died  he  had  one  high 
and  memorable  tribute  paid  to  him,  as 
the  following  will  show: 

The  First  Singing  of  ''Home,  Sweet 
Home.  " 

Perhaps  the  most  thrilling  quarter  of 
an  hour  of  John  Howard  Payne's  life  was 
that  when  Jenny  Lind  sang  "Home, 
Sweet  Home"  to  him.  The  occasion 
was  the  Jenny  Lind  concert  in  Washing- 
ton, the  night  of  December  17,  1850. 
The  assembly  was,  perhaps,  the  most  dis- 
tinguished ever  seen  in  this  country. 
The  immense  National  Hall,  hastily 
constructed    for    the    occasion    on    the 


^Ij0rt  Btama  of  %  %mn0     119 

ruins  of  the  burned  National  Theatre, 
was  filled  to  overflowing.  Among  the 
notables  present  and  occupying  front 
seats  were  President  Fillmore,  Daniel 
Webster,  Henry  Clay,  General  Scott 
and  John  Howard  Payne. 

Jenny  Lind  opened  with  the  "Casta 
Diva,"  and  followed  with  the  ''Flute 
Song"  (in  which  her  voice  contested 
rivalry  for  purity  and  sweetness  with  a 
flute  in  the  duet),  then  the  famous 
"Bird  Song"  and  next  on  her  programme 
the  "Greeting  to  America."  All  the 
selections  were  applauded  apparently  to 
the  full  capacity  of  an  enthusiastic  audi- 
ence and  Mr.  Webster,  who  was  in  his 
most  genial  after-dinner  mood,  empha- 
sized the  plaudit  by  rising  from  his  seat 
and  making  Jenny  a  profound  bow,  as  if 
responding  for  the  country  to  her 
"Greeting."  But  when  the  "Swedish 
Nightingale"    answered    the    encore   by 


turning  in  the  direction  of  John  Howard 
Payne  and  giving  "Home,  Sweet  Home," 
with  all  the  wonderful  tenderness,  purity 
and  simplicity  fitting  both  the  words 
and  the  air  of  the  immortal  song,  the 
difference  was  at  once  seen  between  the 
mechanical  applause  called  out  by  a 
display  of  fine  vocalization  and  that 
elicited  by  the  "touch  of  nature  that 
makes  the  whole  world  kin."  Before 
the  first  line  of  the  song  was  completed, 
the  audience  was  fairly  off  its  feet  and 
could  scarcely  wait  for  a  pause  to  give 
expression  to  its  enthusiasm.  People 
ordinarily  of  the  undemonstrative  sort 
clapped,  stamped  and  shouted  as  if  they 
were  mad,  and  it  seemed  as  if  there  would 
be  no  end  to  the  uproar.  Meantime  all 
eyes  were  turned  upon  Payne,  a  small- 
sized,  elegantly -molded,  gray-haired  gen- 
tleman, who  blushed  violently  at  finding 
himself  the  center  of   so  many  glances. 


w 


V    rt 


^l|0rt  ^tarwB  at  tly^  %mnfi     121 


CHAPTER  XII 

Something  about  "The  Star  Spangled 
Banner.  " 

Inquiries  having  been  made  in  the 
cohimns  of  the  Philadelphia  "Evening 
Bulletin,"  from  which  the  following  is 
quoted,  Katherine  Durang  Fisher  says: 

"I  would  like  to  tell  the  story  as  my 
dear  father,  the  late  Charles  Durang, 
told  my  sisters  and  myself.  He  and 
his  brother,  Ferdinand  Durang,  both 
well-known  actors  in  their  day,  at  the 
time  of  the  attack  of  Fort  McHenry 
were  serving  a  ten  day  engagement  there. 
That  was  on  September  14,  1814,  and 
both  were  then  about  twenty  years  old. 
When  the  poet,  Francis  Scott  Key,  came 
in,  he  held  a  piece  of  paper  in  his  hand 
and  caUing  to  my  father  and  uncle  to 


122     Effort  ^tort^B  of  %  %ttm0 

listen,  he  read  the  original  poem  of  'The 
Star  Spangled  Banner'  to  them.  My 
father  and  uncle  were  so  much  interested 
that  they  took  the  verses  and  hummed 
several  airs  to  them,  in  their  endeavor  to 
adapt  the  words  to  music.  Then  my 
uncle,  Ferdinand,  suddenly  exclaimed, 
*I  have  it!'  and  hummed  the  words  to 
the  music  of  'Anacreon  in  Heaven,'  a 
well-known  hymn  that  was  then  widely 
sung.  Then  the  brothers  Durang  mounted 
a  chair  in  Fort  McHenry  and  sang  the 
song  until  the  whole  garrison  .joined  in. 
Later  they  sang  the  anthem  again  in  the 
old  HoUiday  Street  Theatre  and  the 
whole  audience,  in  which  was  Francis 
Scott  Key,  also  sang  with  the  actors.*' 


#Ijnrt  ^tort^a  nf  tl|f  Ifymtta     123 


CHAPTER  XII 

"Closing  Hymns." 

The  hymns  which  we  sing  in  the  even- 
ing, particularly  those  with  which  the 
evening  service  of  the  Lord's  day  is  con- 
cluded, seem  always  to  possess  a  peculiar 
charm  and  power.  And  this  seems  to 
be  the  case  because,  to  every  thought- 
ful mind  and  reverent  heart,  the  close  of 
the  day  is,  perhaps,  more  than  any 
other  time,  the  natural  hour  for  calm 
thought  and  reverent  devotion.  Even- 
ing is  the  season  of  rest,  of  reflection, 
of  quiet  meditation.  Then  the  day's 
work  is  done;  its  harrowing  cares  are 
over.  Darkness  comes  over  the  face  of 
the  earth,  the  stars  come  out  in  the  sky 
and  both  mind  and  heart,  as  by  an  ir- 
resistible impulse,  run  up   toward   God, 


the  creator  of  all,  while  feelings  of 
gratitude  for  past  mercies  possess  the 
soul,  and  thoughts  come  into  the  mind 
of  the  approach  of  that  night  which, 
sooner  or  later,  must  envelope  us  all  in 
its  impenetrable  gloom  and  that  great 
and  endless  day  of  God  which  shall 
know  no  setting  sun. 

The  evening  of  the  Lord's  day  is,  in 
a  double  sense,  a  time  well  suited  for  de- 
votional purposes  and  the  hymns  which 
we  then  sing  should  be,  as  we  believe 
they  for  the  most  part  are,  sung  heartily. 
The  evening  hymns  we  are  accustomed 
to  sing  in  church — ^how  sweet  they  are! 
How  they  seem  to  give  expression  to 
our  otherwise  pent-up  and  voiceless  feel- 
ings of  adoration  and  praise  to  our 
Heavenly  Father!  Then,  if  at  any  time 
during  the  Lord's  day,  we  should  join 
heartily,  earnestly  and  prayerfully  in  the 
sacred  songs  of  Zion. 


Have  you  never  noticed  what  a  power 
the  last  hymn  of  a  worshipping  congre- 
gation has  over  both  mind  and  heart? 
If  it  be  an  appropriate  evening  hymn, 
and  is  sung  to  some  well-known  melody — 
how  it  lingers  about  one  for  days  after- 
ward! You  find  yourself  humming  it, 
perhaps  audibly,  perhaps  only  inwardly, 
"making  melody  in  your  heart  unto  the 
Lord,"  while  you  are  walking  home 
from  church.  If  you  live  in  the  country 
and  have  several  miles  to  drive  home  in 
your  carriage,  as  you  roll  along  under 
the  light  of  the  full  moon  or  through  the 
gloomy  forest,  you  find  yourself  or  your 
wife  or  children  breaking  out  involun- 
tarily in  the  strains  still  floating  in  your 
mind  and  memory,  as  if  wafted  from  God's 
assembled  people.  You  will  find  that 
same  parting  song  of  Zion  following  you 
during  the  week  with  its  sacred  melody, 
as  a  breath  from  heaven.     The  wife  at 


126     Bl^avt  ^t0ma  nf  tl^t  %mttH 

her  work  in  the  house  hums  it,  the 
husband  whistles  it  as  he  shoves  his 
plane  or  follows  his  plow,  while,  when 
silent,  the  sacred  echo  of  the  song  is 
heard  far  back  in  the  mind  or  deep  down 
in  the  heart. 

Whoever  writes  a  good  evening  hymn 
confers  a  great  blessing  on  God's  people 
throughout  the  world.  Difficult  as  is 
the  composition  of  a  true  hymn  of  any 
kind,  the  preparation  of  a  good  closing, 
evening  hymn  seems  to  be  particularly 
a  matter  of  rare  accomplishment.  We 
have,  as  you  may  have  perchance  al- 
ready observed,  very  few  good  hymns 
suitable  to  the  close  of  the  Lord's  day, 
as  will  be  found  on  consulting  any  hymn 
book.  We  propose  to  call  attention  to 
a  few  of  the  best. 

We  have  already  noticed  the  classic 
composition  —  "Abide  with  me:  fast 
falls  the  eventide" — which  is  indeed  an 


#ljort  Btamsi  nf  %  %mttB     127 


evensong  of  most  surpassing  beauty. 
Then,  there  is  the  good  old  hymn,  "I 
love  to  steal  a  while  away,"  which  has 
been  in  use  among  Christian  people  of 
all  denominations  for  nearly  a  century. 
Of  this  hymn  it  is  related  that  it  was 
written  in  answer  to  the  fault-finding  of 
a  meddlesome  gossip.  It  was  written 
by  Mrs.  Phoebe  H.  Brown,  who  lived 
near  the  village  of  EUington  in  Connec- 
ticut, and  it  was  first  published  in  the 
year  1824.  Mrs.  Brown  was,  at  the 
time  of  the  composition  of  this  hymn, 
a  care-worn  mother  of  a  large  family  of 
children.  It  was  her  custom  every 
evening,  when  the  weather  permitted, 
to  set  her  house  in  order  about  the  hour 
of  sunset,  and,  leaving  the  children  alone 
at  home,  to  go  out  by  a  well  worn  path 
to  a  quiet  and  secluded  spot  by  a  neigh- 
boring mountain  stream  and  there  hold 
sweet    communion    with    God    beneath 


128     ^I|nrt  Btama  at  %  %mna 

the  overarching  trees.  There  she  was 
wont  to  pour  forth  her  soul  in  suppHca- 
tion  for  her  children,  herself  and  her 
friends;  to  tell  over  her  sorrows  and 
trials,  and  seek  grace  and  strength  suf- 
ficient unto  her  need.  One  summer 
evening  on  her  return  home  from  her 
leafy  closet,  she  learned  that  a  neighbor 
woman,  a  great  gossip,  had  been  for 
some  time  watching  her  and  had  been 
sharply  criticising  her  apparent  neglect 
of  her  family.  Deeply  pained  at  this, 
she  sat  down  and  wrote  an  apology  for 
her  conduct,  in  the  form  of  a  poem  which 
was  soon  adopted  as  a  hymn: 

"I  love  to  steal  a  while  away 
From  every  cumb'ring  care. 
And  spend  the  hours  of  setting  day 
In  humble,  grateful  prayer. 

I  love  in  solitude  to  shed 
The  penitential  tear. 


#ljort  BtBXxtB  of  t\}t  llymwa     129 


And  all  His  promises  to  plead, 
Where  none  but  God  can  hear. 

I  love  to  think  on  mercies  past, 
And  future  good  implore, 

And  all  my  cares  and  sorrows  cast 
On  Him  whom  I  adore. 


Thus,  when  life's  toilsome  day  is  o'er, 

May  its  departing  ray 
Be  calm  as  this  impressive  hour. 

And  lead  to  endless  day. " 

This  she  entitled  "An  apology  for  my 
twilight  rambles,"  and  addressed  it  to 
her  lady  critic,  who,  let  us  hope,  was 
profited  as  well  as  reproved.  One  of 
the  little  ones  for  whom  this  Christian 
mother  prayed  in  her  leafy  seclusion  by 
the  brook-side  was  the  Rev.  Samuel  R. 
Brown,  D.  D.,  who  was  for  many  years 
an  efficient  missionary  in  Japan.  It 
may  also  be  interesting  to  know  that  the 


130     #l|0rt  ^tavuB  at  tl^e  %mttH 

author  of  this  hymn  had  been  in  early 
youth  a  servant  girl;  her  life,  from  nine 
to  eighteen  being  spent  in  poverty  and 
slavish  drudgery.  She  never  went  to 
school,  seldom  got  to  church  and  learned 
to  write  after  she  was  married.  She 
was  one  of  the  many  persons  whose 
lives  have  so  forcibly  illustrated  the 
truth  that  it  often  pleases  God  to  use 
the  humblest  instruments  to  accomplish 
His  purposes,  and  that  "Out  of  the  mouth 
of  babes  and  sucklings  He  has  perfected 
praise." 

In  very  striking  contrast  with  the 
lowly  origin  of  the  above  hymn,  we  may 
mention  that  masterpiece  of  evensong, 
"Sun  of  my  soul,  Thou  Saviour  dear." 
Scarcely  ever  can  one  join  with  God's 
people  in  the  use  of  this  hymn  without 
feeling  himself  brought  into  close  fellow- 
ship with  the  most  gentle  and  loving 
spirit  of  its  renowned  author,  as  well  as 


^Ijnrt  ^tortea  of  %  %mtt0     131 


being  lifted  up  into  an  atmosphere  of 
sweetest  communion  with  our  blessed 
Lord  and  Saviour.  There  is  something 
so  exquisitely  tender  in  this  sacred  song 
— it  brings  Christ  so  near — that  we  feel 
quite  certain,  even  before  we  know  any- 
thing of  its  author,  that  it  must  have 
been  written  by  a  man  not  only  of  the 
finest  scholarship,  but  also  of  the  deep- 
est piety.  In  this  our  natural  expecta- 
tion we  are  not  disappointed.  The 
author  of  this  hymn,  the  Rev.  John 
Keble,  was  indeed  a  man  of  the  high- 
est scholarly  attainments,  ennobled  and 
purified  by  the  power  of  Christian  faith 
to  a  rare  degree.  If  ever  "sweetness 
and  light"  were  harmoniously  blended 
in  the  character  and  life  of  any  man  in 
this  poor  world  of  ours,  John  Keble  was 
that  man.  In  the  absence  of  all  in- 
formation as  to  the  immediate  circum- 
stances which  gave  rise  to  the  hymn  we 
have  in  hand,  it  will  be  at  least  interest- 


ing  to  our  readers  to  know  something  of 
its  author. 

John  Keble  was  born  on  St.  Mark's 
day,  April  25,  1792,  at  Fairford,  Glou- 
cestershire, England.  His  father  was 
rector  of  the  church  in  this  village  dur- 
ing a  period  of  fifty  years.  Himself  a 
good  scholar,  the  elder  Keble  did  not 
send  his  son  away  to  school  while  very 
young,  but  conducted  his  early  educa- 
tion himself,  and  he  did  his  work  so  well 
that  his  son  John  was  elected  a  scholar 
in  Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford,  at  the 
unusually  early  age  of  fifteen.  He  ob- 
tained a  fellowship  in  Oriel  College  in  his 
nineteenth  year,  and  the  year  previous 
to  this  he  received  double  first  class 
honors,  a  distinction  which  had  been  ob- 
tained only  once  before  in  the  history  of 
the  university,  and  then  by  Sir  Robert 
Peel.  He  also  gained  the  university 
prizes,  and  "achieved  the  highest  honors 
of  the  university  at  an  age  when  others 


#l|ort  Btav'UB  of  tl\t  IfymttB     133 

were  frequently  but  on  the  threshold." 
During  his  days  at  Oriel  College  he 
had  for  his  fellow  students  some  whose 
names  became  subsequently  widely  known 
throughout  all  Christendom;  for  the 
college,  at  the  time  when  Keble  entered 
it,  was  the  center  of  all  the  finest 
ability  in  Oxford.  Sir  John  Taylor 
Coleridge  had  been  his  fellow-scholar 
at  Corpus  Christi  and  at  Oriel  he  was 
surrounded  with  such  men  as  Copleston, 
Davison,  Whateley,  Arnold  (of  Rugby 
fame),  Pusey  and  Newman.  Not  only 
in  point  of  scholarship  was  he  disting- 
uished amongst  men  such  as  these — "he 
was  more  remarkable  for  the  rare  beauty 
of  his  character  than  even  for  his  aca- 
demic distinctions."  Great  purity  of 
spirit,  sweetness  of  disposition,  simpli- 
city, humility,  characterized  him  through- 
out his  college  days  and  ever  afterward. 
When  he  entered  on  the  pastoral  work 


134     ^Ijort  ^toma  of  %  Ifgnttts 

he  was  renowned  for  his  great  kindness 
to  the  poor  and  for  the  unwearied  in- 
terest he  took  in  the  sick  and  unfortunate. 
Late  at  night  he  would  be  seen,  lantern 
in  hand,  on  his  way  to  or  from  the  home 
of  some  poor,  sick  or  sorrowing  cottager. 
There  was  in  him  not  only  great  culture 
of  the  mind,  great  illumination  of  the 
intellect, — but  also  great  culture  of  the 
moral  nature;  not  only  "light,"  but  also 
"sweetness,"  without  which  all  intel- 
lectual light  is,  after  all,  only  darkness 
indeed.  One  feels  this  to  a  remarkable 
degree  in  all  of  his  writings.  Whatever 
may  be  said  of  his  theological  opinions, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  great 
piety  of  the  man.  His  "  Christian 
Year,"  a  volume  of  sacred  song  which 
will  be  found  in  nearly  every  cultured 
home,  has  had  probably  a  wider  circula- 
tion than  any  other  book  of  the  last 
century.     Between   1827   and   1872   one 


#l|nrt  Btama  nf  tly?  Ifgmnja     135 


hundred  and  jSfty  editions  were  printed. 
In  all  the  sacred  songs  in  this  volume, 
one  feels  the  excellence  to  be  this  same 
exquisite  gentleness  of  touch,  this  same 
deep,  tender,  saintly  sweetness  which  so 
attracted  to  him  all  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact  while  he  was  yet  alive.  "The 
real  power  of  'The  Christian  Year'  lies 
in  this — that  it  brings  home  to  the 
reader  as  few  poetic  works  have  ever 
done,  a  heart  of  rare  and  saintly  beauty. 
We  may  well  believe  that  ages  must 
elapse  ere  another  such  character  shall 
again  concur  with  a  poetic  gift  and 
power  of  expression  which,  if  not  of  the 
highest,  are  yet  of  a  very  high  order." 
All  this  the  reader  feels  as  he  reads 
this  beautiful  hymn.  He  feels  that  he 
is  here  very  close  to  the  heart  of  a  man 
whose  walk  was  close  with  God.  Un- 
bounded trustfulness  in  Christ — "the 
perfect  love  which  caste th  out  fear" — 


136     ^l|0rt  0tnm0  of  i^t  ^^mm 

are  felt  to  thrill  the  soul  as  the  congre- 
gation sings,  ere  it  goes  down  from  the 
house  of  God  at  the  eventide,  while  the 
darkness  of  night  is  gathering  around, 

"Sun  of  my  soul,  Thou  Saviour  dear, 
It  is  not  night  if  Thou  be  near; 
O  may  no  earth-born  cloud  arise 

To  hide  Thee  from  Thy  servant's  eyes. 

When  the  soft  dews  of  kindly  sleep 
My  wearied  eyelids  gently  steep, 

Be  my  last  thoughts  how  sweet  to  rest 
Forever  on  my  Saviour's  breast. 

Abide  with  me  from  morn  to  eve, 
For  without  Thee  I  cannot  live; 

Abide  with  me  when  night  is  nigh. 
For  without  Thee  I  dare  not  die. " 


0I|flrt  ^tcmfi  of  tlj0  llgmna     137 


CHAPTER  XIV 

We  come  now,  finally,  to  the  chief  of 
all  closing  hymns, — the  good  old  "Long 
Meter"  doxology,  "Praise  God  from 
whom  all  blessings  flow. "  For  more  than 
two  hundred  years  this  single  stanza 
has  probably  been  sung  oftener  and  by 
more  people  than  any  other  composition 
with  which  we  are  acquainted.  It  is 
the  chief  of  all  the  doxologies,  and  it  is 
not  likely  that  it  will  soon  be  outworn, 
or  superseded  by  any  other.  It  never 
grows  old.  It  never  wearies.  It  is  per- 
ennially fresh  and  sweet.  It  is  very  in- 
timately associated  with  the  most  sa- 
cred scenes  and  hallowed  memories  of 
the  past.  And  it  bids  fair  to  be  the 
favorite  closing  hymn  for  all  of  God's 
people   to   the   end   of   time.     Did   you 


138     #I|nrt  B>tortra  of  tij?  %mttB 

ever  stop  to  consider  who  wrote  this 
dear  old  doxology,  or  to  inquire  how 
long  it  has  been  in  use? 

It  was  written  by  Thomas  Ken,  a 
Bishop  of  the  English  Church,  about  the 
year  1697,  that  is  more  than  two  hundred 
years  ago.  Now,  if  you  ask  who  Thomas 
Ken  was,  then  let  me  ask  you,  do  you 
not  remember  having  read  in  Macaulay's 
History  of  England  about  seven  English 
Bishops  who  were  once  imprisoned  in  the 
Tower  of  London  and  afterward  brought 
to  trial  for  treason,  because  they  had 
refused  to  read  in  their  several  churches 
the  famous  Declaration  of  Indulgence 
to  Roman  Catholics,  which  King  James 
II  had  published?  These  seven  men 
were — the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
Llo3^d,  Turner,  Lake,  Ken,  White  and 
Trelawney.  They  refused  to  read  the 
King's  declaration,  not  only  because 
they  were  opposed  to  Roman  Catholicism, 


THOMAS  KEN. 


^I|ort  BtomB  nf  tljf  %mttB     139 

but  especially  because  they  felt  that  the 
King,  by  his  arbitrary  action,  was  com- 
promising the  spiritual  freedom  of  the 
Church.  After  a  long  consultation  they 
drew  up  a  paper  in  which,  with  every  as- 
surance of  loyalty,  they  ventured  polite- 
ly to  state  their  reasons  for  declining  to 
read  the  Declaration.  This  paper  they 
presented  to  the  king  on  their  knees. 
On  reading  it  King  James  flew  into  a 
terrible  rage,  called  them  rebels,  and 
eventually  ordered  them  to  the  Tower, 
there  to  await  their  trial  for  treason. 
The  whole  city  of  London  was  aroused 
in  behalf  of  the  Bishops,  who  were  re- 
garded as  martyrs  for  the  common 
cause.  Followed  by  an  immense  crowd 
of  people  who  cheered  loudly  and  re- 
peatedly cried,  "God  bless  you!"  they 
were  with  diflSculty  conducted  to  the 
Tower,  where,  before  the  gates  closed 
upon  them,  the  very  guards  bared  their 
heads  and  craved  their  benediction  and 


140     ^Ijort  Btati^B  nf  tljp  %mna 

blessing.  You  may  remember  also  how, 
subsequently,  they  were  brought  to 
trial  and  acquitted  and  how  wild  all  the 
country  was  over  the  good  news. 

Now,  one  of  these  was  Thomas  Ken, 
at  that  time  the  Bishop  of  Bath  and 
Wells,  and  we  have  mentioned  the  above 
circumstance  partly  in  order  to  locate 
the  author  of  our  good  doxology  his- 
torically and  partly  to  show  what  kind 
of  man  he  was.  That  he  was  a  man 
having  in  him  the  stuff  of  which  martyrs 
are  made  is  evident  not  only  from  the 
above  narrated  facts,  but  also  from  what 
is  elsewhere  related  as  belonging  to  his 
early  history.  In  1679  he  had  been  ap- 
pointed chaplain  to  the  Princess  Mary, 
the  wife  of  William  of  Orange,  and  for  a 
short  time  hved  in  Holland.  In  1680 
he  returned  to  England  and  was  made 
chaplain  to  the  King,  Charles  II.  Hav- 
ing his  residence  at  Winchester,  in  1683 


Bl\tirt  BttivxsB  at  %  ^^mm     141 

the  King  and  his  court  of  fine  people  of 
questionable  morals  once  paid  a  visit  to 
Ken,  and  it  had  been  arranged  that  his 
house  should  be  the  abode  of  the  famous 
Nell  Gwynn,  the  King's  favorite.  But 
Ken  at  once  objected  to  this  arrange- 
ment, refused  admittance  to  her  and 
compelled  her  to  look  for  lodgings  else- 
where. One  would  naturally  think  that 
such  an  act  would  have  been  visited  by 
the  king's  certain  and  severe  displeasure, 
as  no  doubt  Ken  expected  it  would;  but 
strange  to  say,  it  indirectly  led  to  his 
promotion  to  the  office  of  a  Bishop. 
For,  only  the  next  year  after  the  above 
occurrence,  when  there  fell  a  vacancy 
in  the  see  of  Bath  and  Wells,  and  differ- 
ent names  had  been  proposed  for  the 
place.  King  Charles  said  one  day,  *' Where 
is  the  good  little  man  that  refused  his 
lodging    to    poor    Nell?"    and    resolved 


142     #l|nrt  ^toma  of  tl|p  l^gmtta 

that  he  and  no  other  should  be  Bishop 
of  Bath  and  Wells. 

I  have  his  picture  before  me  as  I 
write — a  smooth  shaven  face  it  is,  high 
forehead,  strong  chin,  well-developed 
nose  and  a  very  pleasant  expression  in 
general.  One  only  wonders  why  he 
never  married.  But  he  was  a  bachelor, 
— traveled  considerably  and  always 
carried  his  shroud  in  his  valise  with 
him  wherever  he  went,  and  whenever  he 
took  seriously  sick,  he  at  once  put  it 
on.  This  may  well  illustrate  that  part 
of  his  celebrated  evening  hymn,  where 
it  says: 

"Teach  me  to  live,  that  I  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  my  bed." 

He  is  celebrated  as  one  of  the  "non-jur- 
ing bishops"  who  refused  to  take  a  new 
oath  when  William  of  Orange  came  in — 
an  act  which  cost  him  his  bishopric  and 


Bl^nxt  BtariSB  nf  %  ffymtta     143 

led  to  his  retirement,  in  which  the  rest 
of  his  days  were  spent. 

But,  good  Bishop  Ken  will  be  best  re- 
membered to  the  end  of  all  time,  not 
as  one  of  the  seven  bishops  once  im- 
prisoned in  London  Tower,  nor  as  a 
"non-juror,"  nor  as  a  chaplain  of  King 
Charles  II.,  but  as  the  author  of  the 
noble  song  of  praise  to  the  King  of 
Kings  and  Lord  of  Lords,  "Praise  God 
from  whom  all  blessings  flow."  As  one 
of  the  fathers  of  modern  English  hym- 
nology  he  has  always  held  high  rank. 
Scarcely  even  Keble  himself,  though 
possessed  of  much  rarer  poetic  gifts, 
surpassed  him  in  his  own  sphere.  He 
wrote  a  volume  of  prayers  for  the  use  of 
the  scholars  of  Winchester  College  about 
the  year  1674.  To  this  volume  were 
added  three  hymns  of  his  composition — 
one  for  the  morning,  one  for  the  even- 
ing and  one  for  midnight.     Of  these,  the 


144     ^tyurt  ^tortw  of  tl^t  %mnH 

first  two  are  household  words  where- 
ever  the  EngHsh  tongue  is  spoken.  The 
morning  hymn  is  famiUar  to  all: 

"Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 
Thy  daily  stage  of  duty  run; 
Shake  off  dull  sloth,  and  joyful  rise 
To  pay  thy  morning  sacrifice." 

The  evening  hymn  is  equally  well  known : 

"  All  praise  to  Thee,  my  God,  this  night, 
For  all  the  blessings  of  the  light; 
Keep  me,  O  keep  me,  King  of  Kings, 
Beneath  Thine  own  almighty  wings. 

Forgive  me.  Lord,  for  Thy  dear  Son, 
The  ills  which  I  this  day  have  done; 
That  with  the  world,  myself,  and  Thee, 
I,  ere  I  sleep,  at  peace  may  be. 

Teach  me  to  live,  that  I  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  my  bed; 
To  die,  that  this  vile  body  may 
Rise  glorious  at  the  awful  day. 


^\}iixt  BtamB  nf  %  llgtttttB      145 


Oh,  when  shall  I,  in  endless  day, 
Forever  chase  dark  sleep  away; 
And  praise  with  the  angelic  choir 
Incessant  sing,  and  never  tire?" 

This  is  indeed  a  very  beautiful  hymn, 
and  one  endeared  to  us  all  by  long  use; 
but  as  it  was  originally  written,  when 
composed  for  the  boys  at  Winchester 
school,  it  contained  just  one  more  stanza 
— and  this  last  stanza  was  our  long- 
meter  doxology,  "Praise  God  from  whom 
all  blessings  flow."  This  last  verse,  in 
course  of  time,  became  separated  from 
the  rest  of  Ken's  evening  hymn  and  was 
assigned  to  service  as  the  leading  dox- 
ology in  all  churches  the  world  over. 
If  Thomas  Ken  had  never  been  chaplain 
to  the  King,  a  bishop  and  a  non- juror, 
and  had  done  nothing  more  in  all  his 
life,  save  only  the  composition  of  this 


146     f^ljflrt  ^t0ma  at  t\^t  l|gmna 

last  verse  of  his  evening  hymn,  his  Hfe, 
even  so,  would  have  been  well  spent  and 
a  lasting  source  of  blessing  to  all  the 
world.  Pray,  do  not  forget  good  Bishop 
Ken  when  you  sing 

"Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow, 
Praise  Him  all  creatures  here  below; 
Praise  Him  above,  ye  Heavenly  Host — 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. " 


B\\titt  Btaxx^a  cf  tl|?  %m«3     147 


CHAPTER  XV 

"O  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem, 
When  shall  I  come  to  Thee? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end? 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see?" 

In  nearly  every  collection  this  hymn, 
which  in  varied  form  has  come  down  to 
us  from  the  earliest  period  of  the  Church, 
will  be  found  to  have  a  well  established 
place.  Ordinarily  its  authorship  has 
been  attributed  to  David  Dickson,  who 
was  a  Scotch  Presbyterian  minister,  born 
at  Glasgow,  1583,  became  a  Professor  of 
Divinity  at  Glasgow  1640,  and  later  in 
the  University  of  Edinburgh.  He  was 
deprived  of  his  office  at  the  Restoration 
for  refusing  the  Oath  of  Supremacy,  and 
died  1663. 

In  the  opinion  of  scholars,  however. 


148     ^'lyort  BtxiviSB  at  %  l|gmna 

Dickson  was  not  the  author  of  this 
beautiful  hymn,  but  rather  its  very  ex- 
cellent translator.  The  hymn  comes 
from  a  very  early  period,  just  how  early 
no  one  can  tell;  for,  from  the  day  when 
St.  John  on  Patmos  beheld  "The  Holy 
City,  new  Jerusalem,  coming  down  from 
God  out  of  Heaven,"  the  blessed  vision 
of  the  Heavenly  City  continued  ever 
present  to  the  faith  and  hope  of  the 
Church.  In  the  form  in  which  we  have 
this  hymn  in  our  collections,  it  may  be 
well  to  note,  it  is  but  a  very  small  por- 
tion of  a  much  more  lengthy  composition, 
well  known  in  the  Middle  Ages  in  the 
Latin  form.  And  it  seems  probable 
that,  in  the  form  in  which  it  was  then 
known,  "it  had  received  contributions 
from  various  hands,  additions  which 
were  mostly  translations  from  the 
Fathers  or  from  Mediaeval  Latin  hymns, 
having   been   made   by    one    author   or 


i>ll0rt  ^taxwB  tti  Hit  %mttB     149 

another  at  various  times."  The  sim- 
ilarity of  both  sentiment  and  expression 
between  certain  parts  of  the  hymns  and 
the  writings  of  the  Fathers,  especially 
St.  Augustine  and  St.  Gregory,  would 
seem  to  warrant  the  belief  that  "David 
Dickson  only  put  into  shape,  and  polished 
a  little,  the  work  of  his  devout  predeces- 
sors." The  hymn  is,  therefore,  a  growth, 
and  embodying  as  it  does  the  faith  and 
the  hope  of  so  many  long  ages,  it  com- 
mends itself  all  the  more  from  this  cir- 
cumstance, to  the  faith  and  the  hope  of 
the  Church  of  the  present  day. 

As  has  been  said,  the  hymn,  as  we  have 
it  in  our  day,  is  only  a  small  part  of  the 
composition  as  it  stood  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  as  few  of  our  readers  have 
ever,  in  all  probability,  had  the  privilege 
of  seeing  it  in  its  entirety,  we  take  the 
pleasure  here  to  insert  it  as  a  whole. 


150     Bi^avt  Btttma  nf  tij?  Ifgmna 

The  New  Jerusalem 
I. 

O  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem! 

When  shall  I  come  to  thee? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end- 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 
O  happy  harbor  of  God's  saints! 

O  sweet  and  pleasant  soil! 
In  thee  no  sorrows  can  be  found, 

No  grief,  no  care,  no  toil. 

II. 

In  thee  no  sickness  is  at  all, 

No  hurt  nor  any  sore; 
There  is  no  death  nor  ugly  sight, 

But  life  for  evermore. 
No  dimmish  clouds  o'ershadow  thee, 

No  cloud  nor  darksome  night; 
But  every  soul  shines  as  the  sun, 

For  God  himself  gives  light. 

III. 

There  lust  nor  lucre  cannot  dwell, 
There  envy  bears  no  sway; 


i'licrt  ^toma  of  tlj?  I|amna      151 

There  is  no  hunger,  thirst,  nor  heat, 

But  pleasure   every  way. 
Jerusalem!  Jerusalem! 

Would  God  I  were  in  thee! 
Oh  that  my  sorrows  had  an  end, 

Thy  joys  that  I  might  see! 

IV. 

No  pains,  no  pangs,  no  grieving  grief, 

No  woful  wight  is  there; 
No  sigh,  no  sob,  no  cry  is  heard — 

No  well-away,  no  fear. 
Jerusalem  the  city  is 

Of  God  our  King  alone; 
The  Lamb  of  God  the  light  thereof 

Sits  there  upon  His  throne. 

V. 

Ah  God!  that  I  Jerusalem 

With  speed  may  go  behold! 
For  why?  the  pleasures  there  abound 

With  tongue  cannot  be  told. 
Thy  turrets  and  thy  pinnacles, 

With  carbuncles  do  shine. 


152     ^lyort  ^t0mB  of  %  %mtta 

With  jasper,  pearl,  and  chrysolite. 
Surpassing  pure  and  fine. 

VI. 

Thy  houses  are  of  ivory, 

Thy  windows  crystal  clear, 
Thy  streets  are  laid  with  beaten  gold — 

There   angels   do   appear. 
Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stones, 

Thy  bulwarks  diamond  square. 
Thy  gates  are  made  of  Orient  pearl — 

O  God,  if  I  were  there! 

VII. 

Within  thy  gates  no  thing  can  come 

That  is  not  passing  clean; 
No  spider's  web,  no  dirt,  no  dust. 

No  filth  may  there  be  seen. 
Jehovah,  Lord,  now  come  away, 

And  end  my  grief  and  plaints; 
Take  me  to  Thy  Jerusalem, 

And  place  me  with  Thy  saints, 


^I|0rt  Btnt'ua  af  %  ^^mm     153 


VIII. 

Who  there  are  crowned  with  glory  great. 

And  see  God  face  to  face; 
They  triumph  still  and  aye  rejoice — 

Most  happy  is  their  case. 
But  we  that  are  in  banishment, 

Continually  do  moan; 
We  sigh,  we  mourn,  we  sob,  we  weep — 

Perpetually  we  groan. 

IX. 

Our  sweetness  mixed  is  with  gall. 

Our  pleasure  is  but  pain. 
Our  joys  not  worth  the  looking  on — 

Our  sorrows  aye  remain. 
But  there  they  live  in  such  delight. 

Such  pleasure  and  such  play. 
That  unto  them  a  thousand  years 

Seem  but  as  yesterday. 

X. 

O  my  sweet  home,  Jerusalem! 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 
Thy  King  sitting  upon  His  throne, 


154     B'ljnrt  #t0mj0  nf  tl}t  %mttB 


And  thy  felicity? 
Thy  vineyards  and  thy  orchards  are 

So  wonderful  and  fair, 
And  furnished  with  trees  and  fruit. 

Most  beautiful  and  rare. 

XI. 

Thy  gardens  and  thy  goodly  walks, 

Continually    are   green; 
There  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers, 

As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 
There  cinnamon  and  sugar  grow. 

There  nard  and  balm  abound; 
No  tongue  can  tell,  no  heart  can  think. 

The  pleasures  there  are  found. 

XII. 

There  nectar  and  ambrosie  spring — 

There  musk  and  civet  sweet; 
There  many  a  fair  and  dainty  drug 

Are  trod  down  under  feet. 
Quite  through  the  streets,  with  pleasant  sound, 

The  flood  of  life  doth  flow; 
Upon  the  banks,  on  every  side. 

The  trees  of  life  do  grow. 


^Ij0rt  Btuvxm  af  1I|?  %m«0      155 


XIII. 

These   trees  each   month  yield   ripened  fruit- 

For  evermore  they  spring; 
And  all  the  nations  of  the  world 

To  thee  their  honours  bring. 
Jerusalem,  God's  dwelling-place. 

Full  sore  I  long  to  see; 
Oh  that  my  sorrows  had  an  end, 

That  I  might  dwell  in  thee! 

XIV. 

There  David  stands,  with  harp  in  hand, 

As  master  of  the  queir; 
A  thousand  times  that  man  were  blessed 

That  might  his  music  hear. 
There  Mary  sings  Magnificat, 

With  tunes  surpassing  sweet; 
And  all  the  virgins  bear  their  part. 

Singing  about  her  feet. 

XV. 

Te  Deum  doth  St.  Ambrose  sing, 

St.  Austin  doth  the  like; 
Old  Simeon  and  Zacharie 


156     ^l|0rt  ^tnmB  of  tlje  ^^mm 

Have  not  their  songs  to  seek. 

There  Magdalene  hath  left  her  moan, 
And  cheerfully  doth  sing, 

With  all  blest  saints  whose  harmony- 
Through  every  street  doth  ring. 

XVI. 

Jerusalem!  Jerusalem! 

Thy  joys  fain  would  I  see; 
Come  quickly,  Lord,  and  end  my  grief. 

And  take  me  home  to  Thee! 
Oh  print  Thy  name  in  my  forehead, 

And  take  me  hence  away. 
That  I  may  dwell  with  Thee  in  bliss, 

And  sing  Thy  praises  aye! 

XVII. 

Jerusalem,  thrice  happy  seat! 

Jehovah's  throne  on  high! 
O  sacred  city,  queen  and  wife 

Of  Christ  eternally! 
O  comely  queen,  with  glory  clad. 

With  honour  and  degree. 
All  fair  thou  art,  exceeding  bright — 

No  spot  there  is  in  thee. 


^lyort  ^tort^B  of  tl|0  %mna     157 


XVIII. 

I  long  to  see  Jerusalem, 

The  comfort  of  us  all; 
For  thou  art  fair  and  beautiful — 

None  ill  can  thee  befall. 
In  thee,  Jerusalem,  I  say. 

No  darkness  dare  appear; 
No  night,  no  shade,  no  winter  foul — 

No  time  doth  alter  there. 

XIX. 

No  candle  needs,  no  moon  to  shine, 

No  glittering  stars  to  light; 
For  Christ,  the  King  of  Righteousness, 

There  ever  shineth  bright. 
The  Lamb  unspotted,  white  and  pure, 

To  thee  doth  stand  in  lieu 
Of  light — so  great  the  glory  is 

Thine  heavenly  King  to  view. 

XX. 

He  is  the  King  of  kings,  beset 

In  midst  His  servants'  sight; 
And  they.  His  happy  household  all 


158     ^Ijort  BtamB  of  %  llgmna 

Do  serve  Him  day  and  night. 
There,  there  the  quier  of  angels  sing; 

There  the  supernal  sort 
Of  citizens,  which  hence  are  rid 

From  dangers  deep,  do  sport. 

XXI. 

There  be  the  prudent  prophets  all. 

The  apostles  six  and  six, 
The  glorious  martyrs  in  a  row, 

And  confessors  betwixt. 
There  doth  the  crew  of  righteous  men 

And  matrons  all  consist; 
Young  men  and  maids  that  here  on  earth 

Their  pleasures  did  resist. 

XXII. 

The  sheep  and  lambs  that  hardly  'scaped 

The  snares  of  death  and  hell, 
Triumph  in  joy  eternally, 

Whereof  no  tongue  can  tell; 
And  though  the  glory  of  each  one 

Doth  differ  in  degree. 
Yet  is  the  joy  of  all  alike 

And  common,  as  we  see. 


Bl^att  BtamB  of  %  l|gmttB     159 


XXIII. 

There  love  and  charity  do  reign, 

And  Christ  is  all  in  all, 
Whom  they  most  perfectly  behold 

In  joy  celestial. 
They  love,  they  praise — they  praise,  they  love; 

They   "holy,   holy,"   cry; 
They  neither  toil,  nor  faint,  nor  end. 

But  laud  continually. 

XXIV. 

0  happy  thousand  times  were  I, 
If,  after  wretched  days, 

1  might  with  listening  ears  conceive 
Those  heavenly  songs  of  praise, 

Which  to  the  eternal  King  are  sung 

By  happy  wights  above — 
By  saved  souls  and  angels  sweet, 

Who  love  the  God  of  Love! 

XXV. 

Oh  passing  happy  were  my  state. 

Might  I  be  worthy  found 
To  wait  upon  my  God  and  King, 


160     ^l|0rt  ^tavltB  tif  tly^  l|gmnfi 


His  praises  there  to  sound; 
And  to  enjoy  my  Christ  above, 

His  favour  and  His  grace. 
According  to  His  promise  made, 

Which  here  I  interlace. 

XXVI. 

"O  Father  dear,"  quoth  He,  "let  them 

Which  Thou  hast  put  of  old 
To  me,  be  there  where,  lo,  I  am, 

Thy  glory  to  behold; 
Which  I  with  Thee  before  the  world 

Was  made,  in  perfect  wise, 
Have  had;  from  whence  the  fountain  great 

Of  glory  doth  arise." 

XXVII. 

Again:  "If  any  man  will  serve 

Then  let  him  follow  me; 
For  where  I  am,  be  thou,  right  sure. 

There  shall  my  servant  be." 
And  still:   "If  any  man  love  me. 

Him  loves  my  Father  dear; 
Whom  I  do  love,  to  him  myself 

In  glory  will  appear." 


^I|ort  ^tuntB  of  %  %mttfl     161 


XXVIII. 

Lord,   take  away  my   misery, 

That  there  I  may  behold 
With  Thee  in  Thy  Jerusalem, 

What  here  cannot  be  told. 
And  so  in  Zion  see  my  King, 

My  Love,  my  Lord,  my  All; 
Whom  now  as  in  a  glass  I  see. 

There  face  to  face  I  shall. 

XXIX. 

Oh !  blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart, 

Their  Sovereign  they  shall  see; 
And  the  most  holy  heavenly  host, 

Who  of  His  household  be! 
O  Lord,  with  speed  dissolve  my  bands, 

These  gins  and  fetters  strong; 
For  I  have  dwelt  within  the  tents 

Of  Kedar  overlong! 

XXX. 

Yet  search  me.  Lord,  and  find  me  out, 

Fetch  me  Thy  fold  unto. 
That  all  Thy  angels  may  rejoice, 


162     ^Ijort  BtaxxtB  of  tl\t  %mtta 

While  all  Thy  will  I  do. 
O   mother  dear,   Jerusalem! 

When  shall  I  come  to  thee? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end- 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 

XXXI. 

Yet  once  again  I  pray  Thee,  Lord, 

To  quit  me  from  all  strife. 
That  to  thine  hill  I  may  attain. 

And  dwell  there  all  my  life, 
With   cherubims   and   seraphims 

And  holy  souls  of  men, 
To  sing  Thy  praise,  O  God  of  Hosts! 

For  ever,  and  Amen! 


^lynrj  BtaxuB  of  %  l|gtmta     163 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"The  Celestial  Country" 

While  speaking  of  hymns  of  aspira- 
tion for  the  heavenly  state,  we  naturally 
recall  certain  other  hymns  which  are  to 
be  found  in  nearly  if  not  quite  every  good 
collection,  such  as — 

"The  world  is  very  evil. 
The  times  are  waxing  late" — 

"Brief  life  is  here  our  portion, 
Brief  sorrow,  short-lived  care" — 

"For  Thee,  O  dear,  dear  Country, 
Mine  eyes  their  vigils  keep" — 

"Jerusalem,  the  golden. 
With  milk  and  honey  blest" — 


164     ^l|0rt  ^tortf0  at  ll|?  %mnH 

These,  and  some  others  of  the  same 
tenor,  will  be  found  in  nearly  all  the 
hymn-books  as  accredited  to  John  Mason 
Neale,  Translator.  John  Mason  Neale 
was  born  in  London,  1818,  graduated 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  1840.  He 
was  a  prolific  writer,  especially  of  hymns 
and  translations  of  hymns,  and  made 
the  above  translations  from  a  very  beau- 
tiful Mediaeval  Latin  hymn  known  as 
'The  Celestial  Country."  It  may  be 
of  some  interest  to  us  to  know  that  he 
made  his  very  worthy  translation  of  this 
splendid  hymn  "while  inhibited  from 
his  priestly  functions  in  the  Church  of 
England  on  account  of  his  high  ritual- 
isitic  views  and  practice.  He  was  so 
poor  in  consequence  that  he  wrote 
stories  for  children,  and  composed  and 
translated  hymns  for  his  living,  but  his 
poverty  was  overruled  to  the  enrich- 
ment of  all  Christendom." 


#i|ort  ^ttiv'WB  of  tl|0  %mttH      165 

As  in  the  case  of  the  former  hymn, 
"O  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem,"  so  here: 
these  hymns  above  indicated  are  not  to 
be  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  John 
Mason  Neale.  He  simply  extracted 
them  and  most  intelligently  and  skill- 
fully translated  them  from  a  very  lengthy 
but  very  beautiful  Mediaeval  Latin 
hymn  known  as  "The  Celestial  Coun- 
try," dating  to  the  middle  of  the  twelfth 
century. 

The  authorship  of  *'The  Celestial 
Country"  is  commonly  by  scholars  ac- 
credited to  Bernard  of  Cluny.  He  was 
of  English  parentage,  though  born  at 
Morlaix,  a  seaport  town  in  the  north  of 
France.  The  exact  date  of  his  birth  is 
not  known;  probably  about  1100.  He 
lived  the  Monastic  life  at  Cluny,  and  but 
little  is  known  of  his  history.  He  is  not 
to  be  confounded  with  his  contemporary 


166     ^lj0rt  B>t0ma  of  tl|p  Ifgrnna 

of  the  same  name,  Bernard  of  Clair- 
vaux. 

Bernard  of  Cluny  lived  at  a  time  when 
the  Church  was  torn  by  conflicting 
powers,  when  prelates  and  monks  were 
alike  corrupt,  and  the  spiritual  life  of 
the  Church  was  committed  to  the  faith- 
ful few,  and  by  them  was  kept  alive. 
To  his  peace-loving  heart  the  strife  and 
turmoils  of  the  world  were  a  source  of 
great  sorrow,  and  as  he  lacked  power  or 
position  to  suppress  them  by  force,  he 
spent  his  time  in  writing,  as  by  a  divine 
inspiration,  the  "De  Contemptu  Mundi" 
("On  The  Contempt  of  the  World"),  a 
satire  upon  the  iniquities  of  the  age. 

This  Latin  poem,  of  nearly  three 
thousand  lines,  he  dedicated  to  his  Abbot, 
Peter  the  Venerable.  It  is  a  bitter 
satire  upon  the  corruptions  of  the  times, 
but  opens  with  a  description  of  the 
peace  and  glory  of  heaven,  and  this  part 


^l|0rt  ^toma  of  tl|f  f  gmtta     167 


of  the  poem  is  so  exquisite  that  it  has 
for  centuries  excited  universal  admira- 
tion. ''The  meter  of  the  original  is 
very  strange,  each  line  being  broken  up 
into  three  equal  parts — a  most  difficult 
meter,  and  one  which  only  a  special 
grace  and  inspiration  enabled  the  author, 
as  he  beheved,  to  master.  The  follow- 
ing arrangement  of  the  first  lines  will 
make  this  intelligible:" 

"Hora  novissima  1|  tempora  pessima  |]  sunt:  vigile- 
mus 
Ecce!   minaciter  II  imminet   arbiter  ||ille   aupre- 


mus! 


»»»* 


John  Mason  Neale  made  a  most  ex- 
cellent translation  of  a  part  of  this 
wonderful  hymn  of  Bernard  of  Cluny, 
and  the  hymns  above  indicated  are 
simply  brief  extracts  from  this  transla- 
tion.    As  the  author  of  this  Httle  book 

♦  Schaff-Herzog  Cyc. 


168     ^l|ort  ^toma  nf  tlj^  %mtt0 

is  persuaded  that  comparatively  very 
few  of  his  readers  have  ever  seen  the 
whole  of  Neale's  rendering  of  this  famous 
hymn,  he  thinks  well  here  to  insert  it. 
Its  date  is  about  A.  D.  1150. 

The  Celestial  Country 

The  world  is  very  evil; 

The  times  are  waxing  late: 
Be  sober  and  keep  vigil; 

The  Judge  is  at  the  gate: 
The  Judge  That  comes  in  mercy, 

The  Judge  That  comes  with  might. 
To  terminate  the  evil, 

To  diadem  the  right. 
When  the  just  and  gentle  Monarch 

Shall  summon  from  the  tomb, 
Let  man,  the  guilty,  tremble. 

For  Man,  the  God,  shall  doom. 
Arise,  arise,  good  Christian, 

Let  right  to  wrong  succeed; 
Let  penitential  sorrow 

To  heavenly  gladness  lead, 
To  the  light  that  hath  no  evening, 


^J|0rt  ^tf^xxsB  of  tlj?  famtw     169 


That  knows  nor  moon  nor  sun, 
The  light  so  new  and  golden, 

The  light  that  is  but  one. 
And  when  the  Sole-Begotten 

Shall  render  up  once  more 
The  Kingdom  to  the  Father 
Whose  own  it  was  before, — 
Then  glory  yet  unheard  of 
Shall  shed  abroad  its  ray, 
Resolving  all  enigmas, 

An  endless  Sabbath-day. 
Then,  then  from  his  oppressors 

The  Hebrew  shall  go  free, 
And  celebrate  in  triumph 

The  year  of  Jubilee; 
And  the  sunlit  Land  that  recks  not 

Of  tempest  nor  of  fight. 
Shall  fold  within  its  bosom 

Each  happy  Israelite: 
The  Home  of  fadeless  splendor. 

Of  flowers  that  fear  no  thorn. 
Where  they  shall  dwell  as  children, 

Who  here  as  exiles  mourn. 
Midst  power  that  knows  no  limit, 
And  wisdom  free  from  bound, 


170     ^Jynrt  Bttimz  at  %  %mttB 


The  Beatific  Vision 

Shall  glad  the  Saints  around: 
The  peace  of  all  the  faithful, 

The  calm  of  all  the  blest, 
Inviolate,  unvaried, 

Divinest,  sweetest,  best. 
Yes,  peace!  for  war  is  needless, — 

Yes,  calm!  for  storm  is  past, — 
And  goal  from  finished  labour. 

And  anchorage  at  last. 
That  peace — but  who  may  claim  it? 

The  guileless  in  their  way, 
Who  keep  the  ranks  of  battle. 

Who  mean  the  thing  they  say: 
The  peace  that  is  for  heaven, 

And  shall  be  for  the  earth: 
The  palace  that  re-echoes 

With  festal  song  and  mirth; 
The  garden,  breathing  spices. 

The   paradise   on   high; 
Grace  beautified  to  glory, 

Unceasing  minstrelsy. 
There  nothing  can  be  feeble. 

There  none  can  ever  mourn, 
There  nothing  is  divided. 


^lynrt  ^tamB  ai  %  %mttH     171 

There  nothing  can  be  torn: 
'Tis  fury,  ill,  and  scandal, 

'Tis  peaceless  peace  below; 
Peace,  endless,  strifeless,  ageless, 

The  halls  of  Syon  know: 
O  happy,  holy  portion. 

Refection  for  the  blest; 
True  vision  of  true  beauty, 

Sweet  cure  of  all  distrest! 
Strive,  man,  to  win  that  glory; 

Toil,  man,  to  gain  that  light; 
Send  hope  before  to  grasp  it, 

Till  hope  be  lost  in  sight: 
Till  Jesus  gives  the  portion 

Those  blessed  souls  to  fill, 
The  insatiate,  yet  satisfied, 

The  full,  yet  craving  still. 
That  fullness  and  that  craving 

Alike  are  free  from  pain. 
Where  thou,  midst  heavenly  citizens, 

A  home  like  theirs  shalt  gain. 
Here  is  the  warlike  trumpet; 

There,  life  set  free  from  sin; 
When  to  the  last  Great  Supper 

The  faithful  shall  come  in: 


172     ^l|ort  ^t0m0  of  tl|?  ^^mm 

When  the  heavenly  net  is  laden, 

With  fishes  many  and  great; 
So  glorious  in  its  fulness. 

Yet  so  inviolate: 
And  the  perfect  from  the  shattered. 

And  the  fall'n  from  them  that  stand, 
And  the  sheep-flock  from  the  goat-herd 

Shall  part  on  either  hand: 
And  these  shall  pass  to  torment, 

And  those  shall  triumph,  then; 
The  new  peculiar  nation. 

Blest  number  of  blest  men. 
Jerusalem  demands  them: 

They  paid  the  price  on  earth. 
And  now  shall  reap  the  harvest 

In  blissfulness  and  mirth: 
The  glorious  holy  people. 

Who  evermore  relied 
Upon  their  Chief  and  Father, 

The  King,  the  Crucified: 
The  sacred  ransomed  number 

Now  bright  with  endless  sheen, 
Who  made  the  Cross  their  watchword 

Of  Jesus  Nazarene: 
Who,  fed  with  heavenly  nectar. 


§'I|0rt  ^tort^a  ttt  %  ilfgmtta     173 


Where  soul-like  odours  play, 
Draw  out  the  endless  leisure 

Of  that  long  vernal  day : 
And  through  the  sacred  lilies. 

And  flowers  on  every  side, 
The  happy  dear-bought  people 

Go  wandering  far  and  wide. 
Their  breasts  are  filled  with  gladness. 

Their  mouths  are  tun'd  to  praise 
What  time,  now  safe  for  ever, 

On  former  sins  they  gaze: 
The  fouler  was  the  error. 

The  sadder  was  the  fall. 
The  ampler  are  the  praises 

Of  Him  Who  pardoned  all; 
Their  one  and  only  anthem. 

The  fulness  of  His  love, 
Who   gives  instead  of  torment, 

Eternal  joys  above: 
Instead  of  torment,  glory; 

Instead  of  death,  that  life 
Wherewith  your  happy  Country, 

True  Israelites!  is  rife. 

Brief  life  is  here  our  portion; 
Brief  sorrow,  short-lived  care; 


174     ^l|0rt  ^tamB  at  llfp  ^^m 

The  life  that  knows  no  ending, 

The  tearless  life,  is  there. 
O  happy  retribution! 

Short  toil,  eternal  rest; 
For  mortals  and  for  sinners 

A  mansion  with  the  blest! 
That  we  should  look,  poor  wand'rers, 

To  have  our  home  on  high! 
That  worms  should  seek  for  dwellings 

Beyond  the  starry  sky! 
To   all  one  happy  guerdon 

Of  one  celestial   grace; 
For  all,  for  all,  who  mourn  their  fall, 

Is  one  eternal  place: 
And  martyrdom  hath  roses 

Upon  that  heavenly  ground: 
And  white  and  virgin  lilies 

For  virgin-souls  abound. 
There  grief  is  turned  to  pleasure; 

Such  pleasure,   as  below 
No  human  voice  can  utter, 

No  human  heart  can  know: 
And  after  fleshly  scandal. 

And  after  this  world's  night, 
And  after  storm  and  whirlwind, 


Is  calm,  and  joy,  and  light. 
And  now  we  fight  the  battle, 

But  then  shall  wear  the  crown 
Of  full  and  everlasting 

And  passionless  renown: 
And  now  we  watch  and  struggle, 

And  now  we  live  in  hope, 
And  Syon,  in  her  anguish, 

With  Babylon  must  cope: 
But  He  Whom  now  we  trust  in 

Shall  then  be  seen  and  known, 
And  they  that  know  and  see  Him 

Shall  have  Him  for  their  own. 
The   miserable  pleasures 

Of  the  body  shall  decay: 
The  bland  and  flattering  struggles 

Of  the  flesh  shall  pass  away: 
And  none  shall  there  be  jealous; 

And  none  shall  there  contend: 
Fraud,  clamour,  guile — what  say  I? 

All  ill,  all  ill  shall  end! 
And  there  is  David's  Fountain, 

And  life  in  fullest  glow. 
And  there  the  light  is  golden, 

And  milk  and  honey  flow: 


176     #Ijnrt  BtfxmB  of  tlje  il^gmnH 


The  light  that  hath  no  evening, 
The  health  that  hath  no  sore, 

The  life  that  hath  no  ending, 
But  lasteth  evermore. 

There  Jesus  shall  embrace  us, 

There  Jesus  be  embraced, — 
That  spirit's  food  and  sunshine 

Whence  earthly  love  is  chased. 
Amidst  the  happy  chorus, 

A   place,   however  low. 
Shall  shew  Him  us,  and  shewing, 

Shall  satiate  evermo. 
By  hope  we  struggle  onward. 

While  here  we  must  be  fed 
By  milk,  as  tender  infants, 

But  there  by  Living  Bread. 
The  night  was  full  of  terror, 

The  morn  is  bright  with  gladness: 
The  Cross  becomes  our  harbour, 

And  we  triumph  after  sadness: 
And  Jesus  to  His  true  ones 

Brings  trophies  fair  to  see: 
And  Jesus  shall  be  loved,  and 

Beheld  in  Galilee: 


Beheld,  when  morn  shall  waken, 

And  shadows  shall  decay, 
And  each  true-hearted  servant 

Shall  shine  as  doth  the  day: 
And  every  ear  shall  hear  it; — 

Behold  thy  King's  array: 
Behold  thy  God  in  beauty, 

The  Law  hath  past  away! 
Yes!  God  my  King  and  Portion, 

In  fulness  of  His  grace. 
We  then  shall  see  for  ever, 

And  worship  face  to  face. 
Then  Jacob  into  Israel 

From  earthlier  self  estranged. 
And  Leah  into  Rachel 

For  ever  shall  be  changed: 
Then  all  the  halls  of  Syon 

For  aye  shall  be  complete. 
And,  in  the  Land  of  Beauty, 

All  things  of  beauty  meet. 

For  thee,  O  dear,  dear  Country! 

Mine  eyes  their  vigils  keep; 
For  very  love,  beholding 

Thy  happy  name,  they  weep: 


178     ^I|ort  BtamB  nf  %  %mtt0 


The  mention  of  thy  glory- 
Is  unction  to  the  breast, 
And  medicine  in  sickness. 

And  love,  and  life,  and  rest. 
O  one,  O  onely  Mansion! 

O  Paradise  of  Joy! 
Where  tears  are  ever  banished, 

And   smiles  have  no   alloy; 
Beside  thy  living  waters. 

All  plants  are,  great  and  small, 
The  cedar  of  the  forest, 

The  hyssop  of  the  wall: 
With  jaspers  glow  thy  bulwarks; 

Thy   streets  with  emeralds  blaze; 
The  sardius  and  the  topaz 

Unite  in  thee  their  rays: 
Thine  ageless  walls  are  bonded 

With  amethyst  unpriced: 
Thy  Saints  build  up  its  fabric. 

And  the  corner  stone  is  Christ. 
The  Cross  is  all  thy  splendour. 

The  Crucified  thy  praise: 
His  laud  and  benediction 

Thy  ransomed  people  raise: 
Jesus,  the  Gem  of  Beauty, 


i'lyort  ^itxvv^^  of  %  ligmtta      179 


True  God  and  Man,  they  sing: 
The  never-failing  Garden, 

The   ever-golden   Ring: 
The  Door,  the  Pledge,  the  Husband, 

The  Guardian  of  his  Court: 
The  Day-star  of  Salvation, 

The  Porter  and  the  Port. 
Thou  hast  no  shore,  fair  ocean! 

Thou  hast  no  time,  bright  day! 
Dear  fountain  of  refreshment 

To  pilgrims  far  away! 
Upon  the  Rock  of  Ages 

They  raise  thy  holy  tower: 
Thine  is  the  victor's  laurel. 

And  thine  the  golden  dower: 
Thou  feel'st  in  mystic  rapture, 

O  Bride  that  know'st  no  guile, 
The  Prince's  sweetest  kisses, 

The  Prince's  loveliest  smile; 
Unfading  lilies,  bracelets 

Of  living  pearl  thine  own; 
The  Lamb  is  ever  near  thee. 

The  Bridegroom  thine  alone; 
The  Crown  is  He  to  guerdon, 

The  Buckler  to  protect, 


180     #I|ort  ^tnma  nf  thp  %mtta 

And  He  Himself  the  Mansion 

And  He  the  Architect. 
The  only  art  thou  needest, 

Thanksgiving  for  thy  lot: 
The  only  joy  thou  seekest, 

The  Life  where  Death  is  not: 
And  all  thine  endless  leisure 

In  sweetest  accents  sings, 
The  ill  that  was  thy  merit, — 

The  wealth  that  is  thy  King's! 

Jerusalem  the  golden, 

With  milk  and  honey  blest, 
Beneath  thy   contemplation 

Sink  heart  and  voice  oppressed: 
I  know  not,  O  I  know  not, 

^Vhat  social  joys  are  there; 
What  radiancy  of  glory. 

What  light   beyond   compare! 
And  when  I  fain  would  sing  them, 

My  spirit  fails  and  faints; 
And  vainly  would  it  image 

The  assembly  of  the  Saints. 
They  stand,  those  halls  of  Syon, 

Con  jubilant  with  song. 


^Ifnrt  BtBvxtB  of  ti^t  l^^mm     181 

And  bright  with  many  an  angel. 

And  all  the  martyr  throng: 
The  Prince  is  ever  in  them; 

The  daylight  is  serene; 
The  pastures  of  the  Blessed 

Are  decked  in  glorious  sheen. 
There  is  the  Throne  of  David, — 

And  there,  from  care  released, 
The  song  of  them  that  triumph, 

The  shout  of  them  that  feast; 
And  they  who,  with  their  Leader, 

Have  conquered  in  the  fight, 
For  ever  and  for  ever 

Are  clad  in  robes  of  white! 

O  holy,  placid  harp-notes 

Of  that  eternal   hymn! 
O  sacred,  sweet  refection. 

And  peace  of  Seraphim! 
O  thirst,  for  ever  ardent. 

Yet  evermore  content! 
O  true  peculiar  vision 

Of  God  cunctipotent! 
Ye  know  the  many  mansions 

For  many  a  glorious  name. 


182     i'liort  ^tnrlfa  of  tijp  %mtt2 

And  divers  retributions 

That  divers  merits  claim: 
For  midst  the  constellations 

That  deck  our  earthly  sky, 
This  star  than  that  is  brighter, — 

And  so  it  is  on  high. 
Jerusalem  the  glorious! 

The  glory  of  the  Elect! 
O  dear  and  future  vision 

That  eager  hearts  expect: 
Even  now  by  faith  I  see  thee: 

Even  here  thy  walls  discern: 
To  thee  my  thoughts  are  kindled, 

And  strive  and  pant  and  yearn. 
Jerusalem  the  onely, 

That  look'st  from  heaven  below 
In  thee  is  all  my  glory; 

In  me  is  all  my  woe: 
And  though  my  body  may  not. 

My  spirit  seeks  thee  fain. 
Till  flesh  and  earth  return  me 

To  earth  and  flesh  again. 
O  none  can  tell  thy  bulwarks, 

How  gloriously  they  rise: 
O  none  can  tell  thy  capitals 


B'ljnrt  ^tflma  of  %  l|gmtta     183 


Of  beautiful  device: 
Thy  loveliness  oppresses 

All  human  thought  and  heart. 
And  none,  O  peace,  O  Syon, 

Can  sing  thee  as  thou  art. 
New  mansion  of  new  people. 

Whom  God's  own  love  and  Hght 
Promote,  increase,  make  holy, 

Identify,  unite. 
Thou  City  of  the  Angels! 

Thou  City  of  the  Lord! 
Whose  everlasting  music 

Is  the  glorious  decachord! 
And  there  the  band  of  Prophets 

United  praise  ascribes, 
And  there  the  twelvefold  chorus 

Of  Israel's  ransomed  tribes: 
The   lily-beds   of    virgins. 

The  roses'  martyr-glow, 
The  cohort  of  the  Fathers 

Who  kept  the  faith  below. 
And  there  the  Sole-Begotten 

Is  Lord  in  regal  state; 
He,  Judah's  mystic  Lion, 

He,  Lamb  Immaculate. 


184     i>lf0rt  BtBvxtB  nf  tlyp  %mtta 


O  fields  that  know  no  sorrow! 
O  state  that  fears  no  strife! 

0  princely  bow'rs!     O  land  of  flow'rs! 

0  realm  and  home  of  life! 

Jerusalem,  exulting 

On  that  securest  shore, 

1  hope  thee,  wish  thee,  sing  thee. 
And  love  thee  evermore! 

I  ask  not  for  my  merit: 

1  seek  not  to  deny 
My  merit  is  destruction, 

A  child  of  wrath  am  I: 
But  yet  with  Faith  I  venture 

And  Hope  upon  my  way; 
For  those  perennial  guerdons 

I  labour  night  and  day. 
The  Best  and  Dearest  Father 

Who  made  me  and  Who  saved. 
Bore  with  me  in  defilement, 

And  from  defilement  laved: 
When  in  His  strength  I  struggle. 

For  very  joy  I  leap. 
When  in  my  sin  I  totter^ 

I  weep,  or  try  to  weep: 


^Ijnrt  i'tumfi  of  %  fgmna     185 


And  grace,  sweet  grace  celestial, 
Shall  all  its  love  display. 

And  David's  Royal  Fountain 
Purge  every  sin  away. 

O  mine,  my  golden  Syon! 

O  lovelier  far  than  gold! 
With    laurel-girt    batallions. 

And  safe  victorious  fold: 
O  sweet  and  blessed  Country, 

Shall  I  ever  see  thy  face? 

0  sweet  and  blessed  Country, 
Shall  I  ever  win  thy  grace? 

1  have  the  hope  within  me 
To  comfort  and  to  bless! 

Shall  I  ever  win  the  prize  itself? 
O  tell  me,  tell  me.  Yes! 

Exult,  O  dust  and  ashes! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part: 
His  only.  His  for  ever. 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art! 
Exult,  O  dust  and  ashes! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part: 
His  only,  His  for  ever. 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art! 


186     ^l|ort  BtomB  of  %  l|gmna 


CHAPTER  XVII 

In  conclusion — it  is  well  worthy  of 
our  thankful  observation  that  the  hymns 
of  Christendom  present  an  array  of  piety 
and  scholarship  truly  admirable.  They 
were  written  by  some  of  the  wisest  and 
best  men  that  ever  lived;  by  writers  of 
the  highest  literary  qualification,  by 
theologians  of  the  profoundest  ability, 
by  College  presidents  and  by  University 
graduates.  In  the  olden  time  God  re- 
quired of  the  Jews  that  they  should 
bring  only  "beaten  oil"  for  the  light  of 
His  sanctuary  and  He  still  cares  that  the 
best  talent  and  the  most  unquestioned 
piety  should  be  employed  in  His  Church, 
while  at  the  same  time  He  has  not  failed 
to  set  the  seal  of  His  approval  to  the 
fervid  tributes  of  song  offered  by  some 


#lj0rt  ^tflrtw  stf  tijf  %mttfi     187 

who  were  ignorant  and  illiterate  in  the 
things  of  man  but  wise  in  the  things 
of  God.  For  it  must  be  conceded  by 
every  thoughtful  and  reverent  person, 
that  the  hymns  of  the  Church,  whether 
written  by  men  of  culture  or  by  men  of 
no  education,  have  ever  been  under  the 
direction  of  divine  providence.  As 
some  one  has  said — "Men  may  discuss 
the  nature  and  the  scope  of  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  scriptures,  but  of  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  hymn  book  I,  for  one,  am 
fully  persuaded.  Here,  surely,  as  well 
as  in  the  scriptures,  'Holy  men  of  old 
spake  as  they  were  moved  by  the  Holy 
Ghost.'" 

But,  how  strange  it  seems  that  of  all 
the  exquisite  hymns  known  and  loved 
by  the  Church  of  the  present  day,  not 
one  was  known  to  the  Church  of  the 
first  century  of  the  Christian  era.  Even 
St.  Paul  never  heard  nor  used  any  of  our 


188     ^l|nrt  Stunts  af  ti^t  %mn0 

hymns.  Not  even  the  long-meter  dox- 
ology  was  sung  in  his  day.  In  the 
PhiHppian  jail  "at  midnight  Paul  and 
Silas  prayed  and  sang  praises  to  God," 
and  it  is  a  matter  of  regret  that  "Jesus, 
lover  of  my  soul"  was  not  known  to 
them — it  would  have  been  so  strangely 
fitting. 

Moreover,  unknown  as  all  of  our 
hymns  were  to  the  early  Church,  equally 
unknown  will  they  be  to  the  Church  in 
Heaven.  They  are  our  Pilgrim  songs 
in  our  journey  through  the  wilderness 
of  this  world,  but  not  one  of  them  will 
serve  when  we  have  at  last  crossed  the 
Jordan  and  have  laid  the  pilgrim's  staff 
aside  forever. 

The  hymn  that  will  there  be  sung — 
"the  shout  of  them  that  triumph,  and 
the  song  of  them  that  feast," — will  be  a 
song  that  has  never  yet  been  written, 
at  least  by  mortal  man.     As  is  said  in 


Biftitt  BtafuB  of  tl|0  l^ymtta     189 

the  Book  of  Revelation,  it  will  be  "A 
New  Song"  that  the  redeemed  will  sing. 

"Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  raging  billows  roll" — 

that  will  no  longer  do;  for  there  the 
raging  billows  will  no  longer  roll,  in  that 
blessed   haven   of   eternal   rest.     And — 

"Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee; 
E'en  though  it  be   a  cross 
That  raiseth  me" — 

this  will  no  longer  serve  in  that  land 
where  the  cross  will  be  forever  exchanged 
for  the  crown  of  everlasting  rejoicing. 
Nor  will  it  fare  any  better  with — 

"Sun  of  my  soul.  Thou  Saviour  dear, 
It  is  not  night  if  Thou  be  near" — 

for    "There    will    be    no    night    there." 


190     Bh[Ovt  ^tortea  of  tijp  %mttB 

No,  no.  It  will  be  a  new  song  the  re- 
deemed will  sing,  and  it  will  be  '*  written 
in  heaven."  "And  no  man  could  learn 
that  song  but  they  that  are  redeemed." 

"And  I  heard  as  the  voice  of  a  great 
multitude,  and  as  the  voice  of  many 
waters,  and  as  the  voice  of  mighty 
thunderings,  saying — Alleluiah:  for  the 
Lord    God    Omnipotent    reigneth. " 

Amen  ! 


MhtK  of  Autl|0ra  191 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


PAGE 

Adams,  Sarah,  Mrs 36 

Bernard  of  Cluny 165 

Brooks,  Phillips   114 

Brown,  Phoebe  H.,  Mrs 127 

Cowper,  William   61 

Dickson,  David 147 

Duffield,  George 101 

Dwight,  Timothy 15 

Elliot,  Charlotte 100 

Fawcett,  John 20 

Gould,  S.  Baring 107 

Grigg,  Joseph  85 

Harbaugh,  Henry 81 

Heber,  Reginald 88 

Keble,  John  H 131 

Ken,  Thomas 138 

Key,  Francis  Scott 121 

Luther,  Martin 53 


192  3nhtx  af  A«tI|orH 


Lyte,  Henry  Francis 40 

Mason,  Lowell  77 

Neale,  John  Mason 164 

Nelson,  David   109 

Newman,  John  Henry 46 

Palmer,  Ray 76 

Payne,  John  Howard 117 

Redner,  L.  H 114 

Robinson,  Robert 12 

Root,  George  F 112 

Schmolke,  Benjamin 48 

Toplady,  Augustus 67 

Tyng,  Dudley  A 103 

Watts,  Isaac 54 

Wesley,  Charles 23 

Williams,  William 70 

Winkworth,  Miss 49 


]^nhtx  of  %m«0  193 


INDEX  OF  HYMNS 


PAGE 

Abide  with  me,  fast  falls  the  eventide 40 

All  praise  to  Thee,  my  God,  this  night 144 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 144 

Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne 58 

Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds 19 

Brief  life  is  here  our  portion 163 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning .  91 

By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill 98 

Come,  Thou  Fount  of  every  blessing 12 

For  Thee,  O  dear,  dear  Country 163 

From  Greenland's  icy  mountains 93 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 62 

Guide  me,  O  Thou  great  Jehovah 70 

JX;  Holy,  holy,  holy.  Lord  God  almighty 90 

Home,  sweet  Home 117 

I  love  Thy  Kingdom,  Lord 15 

I  love  to  steal  a  while  away 127 

y  Jerusalem  the  golden 163 


194  dinhtx  of  %mtta 


Jesus,  and  shall  it  ever  be 85 

V  Jesus  Christ  is  risen  today 90 

Jesus,  I  live  to  Thee 82 

Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken 42 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul 23 

Jesus  shall  reign  where'er  the  sun 57 

Jesus,  to  Thy  Cross  I  hasten 81 

Joy  to  the  world,  the  Lord  is  come 57 

Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea 97 

Lead  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom.  45 

Lo !  He  comes  with  clouds  descending 90 

My  days  are  gliding  swiftly  by 109 

My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee 76 

My  Jesus,  as  Thou  wilt 49 

My  soul,  repeat  His  praise 57 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee 36 

>■  O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past 57 

'^     Oh  for  a  closer  walk  with  God 62,  66 

O  little  town  of  Bethlehem 113 

O  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem 147 

Onward,  Christian  soldiers 107 

Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow  ....  130 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me 67 

Stand  up,  stand  up,  for  Jesus 100 

y'    Star  spangled  Banner 121 


Jlnbrx  of  liumttB  195 


Sun  of  my  soul,  Thou  Saviour  dear 130 

The  world  is  very  evil  ("The  Celestial  Coun- 
try")      168 

There  is  a  Fountain  filled  with  blood 65 

There  is  a  Land  of  pure  delight 59 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave,  but  we  will  not 

deplore  Thee 91 

•^k  When  I  survey  the  wondrous  Cross 56 


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